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The Process

By: desireethtttv



A few of my loyal follower's of Desiree's Hot To Trot Transvestite Adventures have asked me how I summon the nerve to be a cock sucking slut with a complete stranger. 

You see one of my earliest tricks in the annuals of Desiree was to dome light truckers heading down lonely highways. A glimpse of long shapely leg in a five or six inch heel generally was all she took back in the day. That was pre-aids day and also when I fit into a lovely size 9 dress. Silky pantyhose, a pair of stilettos, a silk dress slit up to there, and a long blonde wig in Farrah Fawcett style was all the effort it required. That and a pair of cock hungry lips painted hot pink or dragon fire red. 

With no regrets, I am sure I have swallowed at least 50 trucker cocks during my young years between the ages of 17 to 27 on a lonely dark highway. The forcefulness of a stronger truckers hand as he pressed my head down onto his throbbing cum spewing dick was all the reward I asked. I did once get a fiver for a blowjob that put him out of commission for a week.

Nowadays, it's a different story. 7 sizes larger, a bigger thicker everywhere calls for much more preparation than my younger days of strutting. 

Usually a fem weekend begins with checking into a hotel (Yes, I'm married to a wife that finds no pleasure whatsoever in her cock loving sissy husband). Once checked in, I draw a nice warm bubble bath, soak and have a few drinks while I listen to some sexy songs. I might even paint a set of 2 inch dragon lady nails while lounging in the ever so sweet feminine fragrance of bubbles. Once completely relaxed, I carefully rid all the manly appearance of what is still a pair of gorgeous gams. Silky smooth is the way most men like them. 

With that task complete, I step out, pat dry, and may have to dispose of a nice hard on from time to time. Put on a silky dressing robe and sit down to a well lighted make up mirror. Base, rouge, very racy eye shadow, thick black eyeliner with a touch of cobalt blue inner and outer frame ever growing eyes of seduction. Luscious coats of very black mascara lash my feminine eyes to their fullest. Lip liner and peachy pink lip stick coat my soft lips just ready to swallow a bulging piece of man flesh.

Once painted to the whorish look I desire, it's time to step into the hosiery. Weather that is a pair of silk stockings or completely nude to the waist pantyhose, the color of choice is always silky off-black, I simply love silk hosiery. It shows that nude look to the leg while remaining dark and mischievous. The feel of a very expensive pair of hose really sets me off as I struggle to tuck cock and balls between the cheeks of my hopeful pussy flesh. Next and most important now is a silk lined leather waist corset. Cinched so tight, breathe is nearly impossible but the curves of a sexy slut are so welcome. Strapping on a seamless bra with any which a way straps, my D-size silicone breasts are carefully placed with a hardened nipple protruding, just asking for the manly gazes of attention I crave.

They bounce so ever realistically as I strut, swishing hips from side to side exaggerated purposefully. A gold lame mini skirt is the ticket tonight, super tight, and barely long enough to cover my ever hardening but constrained butt plug. A gold appliqué blouse with glitters of gold and complimenting jewels, slightly see thru frame and fall sexily over the roundness of my proud tits.  

Sprits of "Blonde" perfume under the knees, in any man's land, and on the neck readies me for the last four steps of complete feminization. Around my neck goes a gold chain collar with the gold letters spelling out slut. A few rings that say bling bling and some gold bangles hide the thickness of my hands. Left and right earrings with Cock and Sucker spelled out in dangling gold advertise my intentions.

Slippin' on a pair of black six inch spikes with gold accents, I strut to the wig stand to fluff up the most amazing strawberry blonde wig. Donning the wig, daintily teetering on spiked heels, I brush it to its fullest framing my ever so smiling slut face. The silkiness of the hair feels absolutely wonderful. Almost complete one more step that will tell any man the desires of my trashy heart.

Sexily strutting back to the leather chair, I sit and affix the two inch dragon lady nails painted gold with a cock loving wet look.

Ah, a three hour feminization process complete. Several more drinks and the truckers will have to wait. Look far too good and tasty to hide within the confines of a car. 

Calling a taxi, I step into the real world as Desiree, the Hot to Trot Transvestite. So eager to please yet so scared. My heart beats as I give the destination of a local gay bar. He smiles knowingly as I place a generous tip in his man hands. Into the cold night, I bounce the willing to be spread cheeks snugly tight beneath the gold lame skirt. 

Once in the bar, I poise myself for maximum leg exposure on a tall bar stool and order a drink. Sipping it, I catch the stares of a few "Real Women", with their smirks of approval. I am lost in my own world. Nervous, yet with a confident aurora, I flirt with a handsome black man standing at the end of the bar with a starry gaze over his unwavering eyes. 

He smiles, I smile with a quick coy lick of my upper lip painted in pink. A new drink is brought to me compliments of my newfound admirer. A wink of an eager lash brings him to my side as if on a leash. We talk, small talk, compliments on my look. I boldly place my hand on his thigh and say thank you. I sip my strong drink to calm the nerves until it is dry. He orders another and slyly pushes my hand closer to what I want. 

It is hard. It is well defined; it is free from the bonds of underwear. I trace its head with my nail. I lick my lips more often. I whisper the naughtiest things in his ear. He smiles. More drinks come and go, we laugh, he hugs me. I say I'm ready. 

Strutting like a proud peacock he escorts his date for the evening to his car. A nice large front seat accommodates all our needs. I tell him of my passion for turning on truckers. He obliges me by heading highway bound. Once the stream of truckers is steady, I unleash his throbbing hard on and feverously work it to a frenzy. The dome light is shining. My ass is in the air, my head bobbing up and down on a 9 inch black sword. Truckers honk, the pace picks up. I am a mad woman sucking and swallowing a cock all real girls would gawk over. Least 4 inches thick, it stretches my lips as wide as they can go. We have a road show. His hands caress my silk covered ass. His fingers trace the spikes of my sluttish heels. My cock desperately needs escape. I feel him thicken, I fell warmth increasing. The pace heightens. 

The hot cum spews out like a volcano and I painfully try my sissy best to swallow it all. My cheeks are dripping cum. I can't breathe. I rise up, exhausted. He is satisfied. I turn and wink at my trucker and get a fingertip full of cum off my nose and suck it clean. He honks in admiration.

Life is good between the crotch of a good hard man.

Love Desiree, the Hot To Trot Transvestite.

The Process...



Michelle always liked the process, the rhythmic movements, uniforms if there were uniforms, anything involving people systematically performing a task. From watching her high school band doing its routine, to the military drill teams marching along in a parade in Washington, DC. From movies showing assembly line workers building the old model T to a more recent video of the song "Chain Gang".

But her favorite has always been garbage men. Garbage men rolling down the street grabbing the heavy sodden tubs of garbage and heaving them into the bucket of the garbage truck. She listened for the rumble of the diesel engine on the mornings when she knew the trash was taken out and, when she heard it coming, along with the squeal of brakes tired of holding back the truck transporting it from her home to the dump, she squealed and ran to the window to watch. 

She'd burst with excitement, her whole body tense and she'd watch as the men worked their way down the street. It didn't matter to her whether the men were black, white, or Hispanic, or whether or not they rippled with sinewy muscles or had a significant spare tire around their waist, it was the process.

And watching it made her wet.

She never understood the connection, but this was a case where understanding wouldn't make a difference. It was a thrill, and Michelle was addicted to thrills. 

Her penchant for showing off her body, still fabulously curved well into her middle years, was something her husband had appreciated and even encouraged (not that much encouragement was required). Her typical dress was short ... both on the bottom and the top. She had a body which fit most men's desires. If you're an ass man, hers is curvaceous and flows from a tight waist on down to shapely dancer's legs. If you love breasts, hers are superb. Between C and D they rest nicely below shapely shoulders and provide as much cleavage as anyone not fixated on the absurd would ever want. Her nipples pleasantly large and her aerola nearly non-existent which make it possible for her to pull her tops down further than most ladies and enjoy the ministrations of men trying to look her in the eyes.

This morning she'd gotten up early, taken out the trash in her negligee, a see through babydoll piece that wrapped snugly around her and tied at the waist, it strained to conceal without concealing her ample chest. She'd done most of her morning tasks, made her iced coffee, grabbed the paper, and taken care of her man. While she loved giving him a blow job in the morning and she did a splendid job this morning thinking about the thrill of both the garbage and recycling men coming

She work Robert from his slumber by pulling his manhood into her mouth and gently rolling it on her tongue until it was hard. Then, as she knew he preferred slow rhythmic movements to a more hurried pattern, she pulled him into her mouth and used her tongue on the underside 'petting him' she called it. And when she felt his stiffness getting even harder, she smiled to herself as he came. Today she backed away from his cock rather than swallow his seed. Today she wanted to feel it on her face, to rub it in, to smell it. After his orgasm she rubbed her face with his cock smoothing his cum into her skin, kissing 'him' and then repeating the process. 

She loved the process.

"Bark, bark." 

"Dang it." she thought "I'm going to miss them." 

Robert, her husband, usually took the dog out before he went to work but this morning he was in a bit of a rush and had to leave without finishing up on this task. On such occasions, when 'Lil shit' needed to go she'd normally take him out on the leash and he'd wander down to the neighbor's house two doors down to do his business but that would take her off the street where the trash men were going to come soon. It would break her routine and mess up her whole day if she couldn't check out the men from the bathroom window as was her habit. 

"Crap." "Come on Lil shit! Let's go." and she took him out still in her babydoll. The sun was just coming out and she thought she could get back in if he did his stuff quickly.

"Damn!" she heard the sound of the brakes first. The high pitched squeal of the brakes straining against the weight of the truck. Then the sound of the diesel engine roaring to the next set of garbage cans. Squeal, thud, roar. Squeal, thud, roar as the truck moved down the street, stopped, the cans were emptied, and then roared off to the next set of cans. "Hurry up." 

LS finished his business, looked at her and wagged his tail as if he'd just given her the best present in the world and started off to the house. She followed him her mind racing figuring out whether or not she could get in the house and at the window before they could get to the house. "Squeal, thud, roar." No way. Today was going to have to be different and it was Lil S that provided the surprise.

Just as she rounded the corner to the house he took off. Even though he was a tiny, tiny dog, his racing to the sound of the truck and her mind so intent on watching the trash men took her so off guard that he managed to pull the leash out of her hand. Running after it, him, she looked up quickly to see that they were right there, in the front yard and Lil S was barking at the man who was at first serious about his work and then laughed out loud as he saw this little chipmunk of a dog barking at his red men workboots. 

"What's going on here boy?" "Are you a boy?" 

"I'm so sorry." Michelle said breathlessly as she picked LS up and grabbed his leash holding him loosely to her chest. "He just jumped and it surprised me." "He'd never bite you."

Laughing, Tony, she saw his name tag, said he couldn't much bite anything could he. Maybe a thumb but that's about it. 

"What was he looking at?" Michelle thought. Most men were fixated on her breasts but Tony was looking directly in her eyes. "Oh my god... I've still got Robert's cum on my face. Oh, my GOD."

"Leroy! C'mon around her, you gotta see this little squirt of a dog."

Leroy, knowing Tony, knew he didn't give a shit about the dog, he just wanted to spend a bit of time checking out this hot redhead who'd just come running after the furball, her breasts pounding up and down unrestrained as she ran and the bottom of her babydoll flipping up showing more than just leg. Leroy wasn't immune to checking out the ladies either so he put the truck in neutral, pulled up the parking brake and wandered to the back of the behemoth. 

"Now what we got c'here?" "You one furry little rat now aren't you?" Leroy said as he sized up the situation. 

Tony was standing there eyeing Michelle's breasts still heaving up and down a bit from her sprint as she had turned her head noticing Leroy. She was captivated by Leroy's voice. It reminded her of her favorite baritones James Earl Jones, and Barry White and it took her aback and she didn't even hear Tony when he asked if he could hold the dog for a moment. Without even looking at him she replied "Sure."

The next thing she knew Tony's hand was brushing her breast ... "What the heck?" she thought startled and then looked down as Tony's thick fingered hands were reaching to pull LS away from her. "Oh." 

His right hand had pressed against her breast as he went to hold LS (more to take him away so he could ogle her breasts than as a gesture of a man loving a little doggie.) and her startled movement and then pulling away had the unintended effect of grabbing LS's collar in her negligee and pulled it completely away from her breast, ripped the cloth, and pulled the simple knot at her waist open. 

"NO, NO! This can't be happening. I'm nude! in front of these men." rushed through her mind. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." she said rapidly as if the men were embarrassed by her nakedness. "I'm so sorry." Quickly wrapping herself up again, pulling the sides of her negligee snugly against her it was quite the predicament and she started to laugh. 

"No problem m'aam. But you're probably going to want to put something on before you catch your cold." 

Tony offered to take LS in and Michelle thought "Well, I've taken it this far, and I don't have another hand to grab the leash." "OK, thank you."

Michelle had always been kind to the people who worked for her, cooking meals for the moving crew, making sandwiches and iced tea for the lawn guy, giving clothes to the cleaning lady and it was this kindness that got her into trouble next.

Without thinking as she reached the door, she asked "Would you like a cup of coffee?" "Oh my God!" she thought to herself, "Did I just ask that?" "No problem, I'll give him a cup to go and one for his partner and then I can go to my room and masturbate." "God I'm so wet!"

"Why thank you, I'd love that." 

Tony followed Michelle into the kitchen where to her surprise the coffee was already made. Only it was made last night for her iced coffee this morning and the pot was half full of cold coffee. That won't do. She pulled the carafe out and poured the rest of the coffee into a container for later, and went to the cupboard for some fresh Dunkin Donuts vanilla flavored ground. 

As she was doing this, Tony was having the time of his life. This beautiful woman was still only flimsily clad, better than nude really, and her curves were tantalizingly close. Her breasts and butt bounced nicely under the negligee and the rip opened up from time to time where he could see her nipple exposed briefly. 

She was measuring the coffee into the filter when she felt him up against her. His brawny hands, dirty from the morning's work, had slipped underneath her arms and were groping her breasts firmly. He ground himself into her buttocks from behind and, in his worn thin work pants, she could easily feel his stiffness. 

"Stop it! Stop it!" her mind raced, but she was so shocked nothing came out of her mouth for a moment. And by then, he'd pulled what was left of the negligee away from her breasts, untying the belt as he pulled the front apart. Her eyes shot upward and she spun around "I can't, you can't do this!" "I've got a husband." 

His hands were now grabbing Michelle's firm ass, pulling her tightly against him her legs slightly spread from the stance she'd arrived at when she turned around and he ground himself into her more. "It's ok honey, it's ok." "I just thought you wanted a little." and he let go backing away only a touch. "I need my job."

"OK, ok. I can see where you might have thought that." and Michelle closed her eyes briefly catching her breath. She exhaled. "OK." 

"You are one damn pretty woman. And Mr Happy here sure would like to get to know you if you were interested." he said and took Michelle's hand and placed it over his burgeoning pants. 

"Damn, why did he do that?" Michelle loved the feel of a hard penis. It threw her into another realm completely and, while she thought of herself as a faithful wife, she was in a quandary now. He did feel good and his smell was just overwhelming. What the heck was it about these guys? and she noticed just then that, rather than taking her hand away, she was squeezing him through his slacks. Firmer and softer, firmer and softer, firmer and softer. He was soooo very hard. Her eyes closed for a moment and the next thing she knew her hand was on bare skin. 

Tony had worn workpants for years with an elastic waistband. He had found it easier for him since his weight went up and down like an elevator and he hated buying new pants every month or two. And, he had gone commando ever since his first girlfriend had told him she loved it when guys did that. Or went without socks. 

When Michelle's eyes closed he'd put his hand on top of hers holding her there as she clasped and released and then had briefly pulled her away long enough for him to slip the pants down with his other hand. He replaced her hand with his on top of hers.

Michelle gasped but held steady. She looked down and saw his foreskin riding up over the tip of his cock and then being pulled back releasing the head with it's slit moistened. She was mesmerized with the sight and repeated the motion over again, and over again. It seemed to her that the tip of his cock was getting wetter. 

She shook her head as if to say no to herself and then... she found herself going down, down to get a closer look at this amazing sight. Looking at it inches from her face she continued to stroke him, slowly pulling the foreskin over the tip and then back. Moving closer the smell was nectar to her. Back and forth, back and forth. 

She leaned in just a touch more and, with her eyes closed she touched the tip with her tongue. Just touched it as she continued stroking him. She could feel his foreskin touching her tongue and pulling away, the tip of her tongue nestled in the slit at the end of his penis. And then she kissed it. Lips just over the head. Still stroking. Now feeling the foreskin touching her lips and then gone. She stayed there for what seemed like hours, her sense of time completely having left her. 

She opened her mouth wide and slid him deeply into her not touching the top of his penis at all rather running her tongue along the underside of his cock. Closing her lips on him when she reached the base of his cock she breathed in deeply, his musk filling her nostrils, his cock filled her mouth and she pulled back. Kissing the end again, opening her mouth again, sliding him deeply in and then closing her lips again she was in heaven. It was so incredibly decadent. So amazingly hot. And she was lost in the moment when she realized that she was in her own rhythm, that in that moment her rhythm was turning her on as much as the rhythm of the garbage truck 'squeal, thud, roar'. 

She felt his orgasm coming. His cock pulsing and she held his balls in her hand squeezing gently but firmly, holding the base of his cock as he released in her mouth. She stayed there until he was done. Until the last pulse ended and she felt him softening slightly in her mouth and hand. 

She swallowed...

"Thank you." she said as she kissed the tip of his cock one more time. Michelle licked the tips of her lips, raised her hand to her nose and smelled his musk once more. "I guess it's time for you to go."



The Process



Synopsis: Anna is willingly enslaved.

mc md mf

*****

1

She knocks on the door of the hotel room. As specified in the message, she is wearing a cream dress, cream heels, and a white coat. Her hair is up in a French roll.

The man opens the door. "Anna? Please come in." She walks into a large suite, with a desk in front of the large French windows and an inner door leading to the bedroom.

The man motions for her to stand before the desk and sits behind it. 

"You do realise what it going to happen here now?" he asks. 

She nods. "Yes."

"We have discussed this via email and on the phone before. But this is the first time we meet in person, and I would like to go over it again with you, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." 

"Good. When you sign this form you will be setting in motion an irreversible process whereby you will become permanently enslaved. You will be trained and assigned to several placements. Finally, you will be assigned to your final owner. You will have no say in these decisions but rather will trust us to decide on what is best for you based on what we have found about you during the process. And in the end, we will know more about your needs and desires than you know yourself. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"The training will involve intensive hypnotic conditioning, which will be continued during your placement periods as well as by your final owner. This will keep you in a permanently malleable, extremely suggestible, submissive state of mind. Indeed, after a certain period of time, what we call a 'slavemind' will be generated and will become your basic personality, to be modified and manipulated by your final owner as desired - who of course will also be free to modify your physical appearance in any way. Your previous life and personality will become basically erased. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Your training will also involve heavy physical and sexual use so as to reinforce and speed the loss-of-self process. By entering this process, you will be effectively cutting all ties to your previous life and permanently waiving all your rights as a citizen and an individual and becoming, to all purposes, our property first and later on your final owner's property. Do you understand?"

"I understand." 

The man takes a look at her. "Are you wet, Anna?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that there is no going back? That this is not a game?"

"Yes."

"Yes what, Anna?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Have you brought your flat keys?"

"Yes, Sir." 

"Place them on the desk."

She takes them out of her handbag - two sets - and obeys.

"Your documents?"

"Yes, Sir." 

"Give them to me." 

She brings a large folder out of the handbag and, again, places it on the desk.

"Is everything here?"

"Yes, Sir. My passport, driving licence, ownership deeds , medical history, academic record, and various ID cards."

"Your flat is empty and your car has been left in the parking area specified?"

"Yes, Sir. I left the key in the starter." 

"Good. I will send someone to take care of them later. Please place your handbag on the floor and remove your coat and dress. Then place everything on that armchair."

She does as she is told and returns to her position, standing in her heels and an ivory bra and culottes. The man stands up and walks around her appraisingly. 

"You are a beautiful woman, Anna. What are you, thirty-nine?"

"Thirty-eight, Sir."

"You will make a wonderful slave for a discerning owner who is not interested in breeding you. And we will fetch a very good price, I daresay. Why do you want this, Anna?"

For the first time, Anna blushes. " I need it, Sir."

"And why do you need it, Anna?" asks the man, almost curiously.

"I... I don't know, Sir. I only know I do. I always have."

The man approaches her and runs his finger lightly down the line of her jaw. "Of course. Some of you are just born slaves. Don't worry, Anna. We are going to set you free. How's your cunt?"

"Sopping wet, Sir."

"Yes. I can smell it. Well, let's begin then, shall we?" He takes a step back and contemplates the goose pimples on Anna's flesh. "Walk into that bedroom. There is a blindfold on the bed. Tie it on, lie down on the bed, face up, arms by your sides, and wait."

***

She waits and waits and waits, losing track of time, listening for every tiny noise, her nipples hard as rocks, and so wet that the quilt beneath her is starting to get soaked. 

Then the door creaks open, and she feels a hand on her legs, gently opening them. Soft steps on the carpet, and more hands - three? four? five? - on her face, her breasts, her stomach, he mouth. A male smell, so close, so hot. Then a cool hand slipping beneath her culottes, cupping her mons firmly, just so her juices slurp and slither between fingers and she raises her hips involuntarily, greedily, seeking more.

"So docile. So eager," laughs her handler's voice, softly. "Don't worry, Anna. We will make you even more so. And we will remove that little voice at the back of your mind. The nagging voice that keeps insisting that you are an independent person with a mind of your own. It will be gone. Forever."

Then two fingers slide into her, so deftly, and something hard pushes against her mouth, and she opens hungrily - above and below - and she moans gagging as she falls into the rocking rhythm, sucking and pumping, grinding against the hand, slurping against the cock, blindly. Her handler's voice, now next to her ear, whispers relentlessly: "Such a good slave. Such a good piece of property. So biddable. So docile. So obedient. You will obey, Anna. You will serve. You exist only to serve. You are ours. Obey now, Anna. And... cum."

When commanded, she explodes into an orgasm so hard that it feels her entire body is bursting. So hard that she hardly feels her cunt clenching wildly around the intruding fingers, the hot jism spurting wildly onto her face and breasts.

She feels hands supporting her, holding her up somehow, as her orgasm subsides. Then her blindfold is suddenly removed and she blinks in the sudden brightness and rawness of it, her sperm-covered skin so sensitive after the shock. 

Something is presented to her. A form and pen. "Sign," says her handler's voice, and, in her dazed and confused state, she can only scratch a cross at the bottom of the page. 

"Good girl, Anna," says her handler's voice, obviously pleased, and she hears the crinkling sound of paper being folded and placed in an envelope. "You have done the right thing. It has started." 

Suddenly the brightness disappears again as the blindfold is slipped back on and the hands push her down onto the bed. Fastenings - bands being stretched over her chest, hips, and knees, cuffs being secured around her wrists and ankles. Tightly, like the restraints in a psychiatric ward. She feels cold metal against her skin as scissors slide under the restraints to cut off her underwear and she is left lying naked and helplessly bound on the bed. 

Her mouth is prised open and something smooth and hard is inserted, then a gag is secured over her mouth. Her legs are opened again, and something else is inserted, large enough so as not to slide out on all her wetness. 

"Keep her on P1," comes her handler's voice from beyond her feet. "No stimulation. I think this has been quite enough for today. And besides, this one seems capable of generating stimulus enough on her own," he laughs lightly again, and seems to leave the room. 

Careful hands place earbuds in her ears, and a crackling hum invades her head, blocking out everything else. White noise? is all she can think, as she seems to catch elusive snatches of words, meaning, in the sudden avalanche of sound. But soon her body takes over and she falls into a heavy, blank sleep, punctuated by the hisses and slithering voices being looped over and over into her exhausted, vulnerable mind. 

2

She kneels naked in front of the mirror, staring at the pale, dark-haired woman in front of her, her bleary, slightly glazed green eyes, her huge pink areolae like another set of eyes. Confusedly, she is somewhat aware that this must be her looking at her, but in her disjointed state she is unable to articulate any sentence or judgement. Only the perception, and the distant rumble of missed thoughts at the back of her mind as they fade out of her awareness. 

She feels someone standing behind her, but is unable to look up or back and see who it is. She has been told to stare into the mirror, and the idea of not doing so does not even cross her mind. Yet she feels the warmth of the other against her back, legs, and involuntarily she shimmies and grinds her hips against the object which she had and had not noticed is placed between her thighs, rubbing its long, smooth curve against her G spot. She moans slightly. 

Her handler pats her dark brown hair. "Good girl." His hand slightly raises her chin, then gently touches her lips so that she will open it and pours a few drops into her mouth. "Scopolamine," he says. "Also known as burundanga in South America. It makes you... extremely amenable to our suggestions, Anna. Basically, it flattens your will. Unfortunately, this effect is transitory, but we have found that it provides a good basis for more intensive and permanent work. So let us have a little session now. What are you?"

"A slave, Sir."

"Who do you belong to?"

"I belong to you, Sir. And to whomever you sell me to."

"What is your purpose?"

"To obey and serve my owner, Sir."

"In what way?"

"In any way I am ordered to, Sir."

"For how long?"

"For as long as I live, Sir."

"Do you have any rights?"

"I have no rights, Sir. I am just a piece of property."

"What is your name?"

"Anna, Sir."

"And what is your surname?"

"Dixon, Sir."

"Hm."

Her handler writes something down on a notebook and kneels down next to her. He removes the device and puts his hand between her legs. "Sodden. Good girl." She holds backher groan, as she has been told to do. 

He stands up again and helps her up, holding her by her shoulders and making her stand again in front of the mirror. Following her conditioning, her eyes become immediately ensnared by his and her own reflection. "Look at her, Anna. She is a slave. Slaves obey. Slaves derive pleasure from their obedience. But your pleasure is secondary. All that matters is pleasing your owner. Bringing pleasure to your owner. Obeying your owner. Who is your owner now, Anna?"

"You are, Sir," gasps Anna.

"You must obey me."

"I must obey you, Sir."

"You are my property."

"I am your property, Sir."

"Look into my eyes, Anna."

Anna gazes helplessly into the cold blue eyes of the reflection that is holding her own, rigid reflection in the mirror, his strong hands around her narrow shoulders. "I control you, Anna. Whenever the sentence 'obey, Anna' is pronounced, you will feel this control, this hold on your body and your mind, and you will be reminded that you are a slave, and you will obey. Helplessly and with no thought or objection. Is this understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Helpless, Anna." He runs one hand down her breastbone, between her breasts, all the way over her navel and down to her naked mons. He starts to caress her red, swollen lips. "You will be constantly aroused and wet, Anna. At all times. A slave is always available for use. A slave is always ready to serve in any way possible. A slave is always ready to be fucked." He slides two fingers in, then two fingers from his other hand into her mouth. "You will make a wonderful slave, Anna. So eager and molten. Do not cum, Anna."

She cannot help but press against his hand, desperately sucking at his fingers. Her knees legs start to tremble. "Stand up straight and look at yourself, Anna. A slave. A piece of property. A possession. A toy. Something to fuck and use. That's what you are now, Anna. That's what you will be for the rest of your life. Owned. Enslaved. And that is just your body to begin with." She is shaking so hard now that he has to remove his hand from her mouth and hold her around the waist so that she won't drop to her knees. 

"Obey, Anna. Cum." 

And he holds her again as she thrashes helplessly into the dark in his arms.



The Process of Illumination



"He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him..."

–The Ugly Duckling, Hans Christian Andersen, 1844

*******************

My warm-hearted husband has always had a habit of picking up strays. I suppose that's one of the endearing things that attracted me to Donny in the first place. However, throughout the past 30-plus years, I can't count all the wayward dogs, cats, and even rabbits he "adopted" and I ended up nursing back to health. Thank goodness we were lucky to eventually find loving homes for these lost souls, or our house would resemble a zoo. Now that we're in our fifties, and basically empty-nesting, I figure my days of playing Florence Nightingale to his Father Flanagan were over. Apparently I figured wrong.

"Come on Honey, it's one thing to provide shelter to some kitten or puppy, there's no way I'm going to take in a full-grown stranger," I replied emphatically, after taking a sip of hot coffee. 

"I know I'm asking a lot Barb, but we do have that spare bedroom, and it's not like he'll be here forever. Once he gets on his feet... hey, the least you can do is meet him; then maybe you'll understand," Donny pleaded.

Sitting out on the back deck, still in my low cut lacy nightgown under a long terrycloth bathrobe, I stared out across the long back yard and ten acres of mature trees. A brisk early October morning breeze swept through me. Clutching my elbows to buffer the chill, I bargained. "Okay, okay, you can bring him by the house sometime; but that doesn't mean I'm saying yes to this," I reluctantly relented.

"Great! I'll go get him!" Donny shouted and headed back in the house.

"What? You mean he's HERE? Not now, I look a mess," I said, knowing full well my hubby was prone to pulling such stunts.

"You look just great. We'll be right in." I heard his voice trail off, as he trotted off through the house. 

I barely had time to check the mirror, before Donny's truck door slammed. Pouring another cup of coffee, I looked up to see his latest stray, and boy was he a big one. The bearded, scraggly-haired, overweight boy in his early twenties appeared older, as he warily raised his eyes through thick dark horned-rimmed glasses.

"Honey, this is Ben. Ben, this is Barb," Donny introduced. I made my way toward them, clutched the neck of my robe, smiled and extended my hand.

"Hi Ben, nice to meet you," I smiled up at the extremely shy, six foot tall stranger.

"Say hello Ben," Donny prompted, hearing no response from the youngster.

"Hi Missus..." he slowly began.

"Oh, call me Barb; everybody does. No need to be formal around here." I brought my smile to a grin, detecting the inkling of a smile from him.

"N-nice to meet you Barb," he finally got out and comfortably shook my hand.

"Okay then, how about some nice fresh coffee?" I suggested, pulling my hand from his.

The boy's smile broadened a bit. He nodded. The two guys took seats at the kitchen table, while I turned to get cups. Returning with the coffee pot, I hadn't noticed my robe had opened, giving them a nice long view of my cleavage as I poured.

"Those are hot now, don't burn yourselves," I warned, then catching sight of their eyes glued to my chest, I realized the double connotation.

Suddenly embarrassed by inadvertently displaying myself, I turned my back to them and cinched up my robe. "So Donny tells me you're doing some work for him..." I said, sitting across from them, folding my arms, and sipping my coffee.

The next half hour was spent prying Ben's sad story from him. He lost his family in an auto accident, when he was a junior in high school. After his aunt and uncle took him in, he graduated, and has been living on his own since. Judging from his shabby appearance, I guessed he suffered from poor social skills, and limited experience with girls. Although he was socially 'challenged', he seemed to relax more, as we continued to talk. 

He ragged appearance and introvert tendencies were two hurdles I knew he could overcome with a bit of help. Whether or not we could affect his lack of self esteem was a concern. However, after chatting with the less-than-attractive, but intelligent young man, I could see why Donny felt inclined to offer him a place to stay. 

Hubby and I excused ourselves into the next room. Following a short private pow-wow, we agreed on some basic ground rules. "I'm mostly concerned about the privacy thing, Honey," I admitted.

"Sure, I'll make sure he knows to keep his distance from our bedroom, bath and stuff; that's if you can keep from showing him your big tits," Donny laughed.

"Hey, that wasn't MY fault... oh forget it, you asshole!" I shook my head.

"Wow, this place is so nice and huge, compared to my apartment! I really DO appreciate this, Missus ..., I mean Barb," Ben's face lit up, as he hauled two huge oversized duffle bags to our spare bedroom on the second level, and just down the hall from our master suite.

"Here's a nice big bathroom Ben. Don't be afraid to use it," I smiled but made the comment with all sincerity.

"Yes Ma'am."

"Our bedroom is down the hall," I noted, more-or-less restating the section of our two-story house that was to be considered off limits.

He nodded. I explained more details about our schedules, and some minor things we expected from him. He was quite agreeable and seemed virtually thrilled to have the opportunity to stay with us.

*******************

Betty Lou Who?

After only a couple of weeks, I started to notice changes in the boy. When he and Donny were not at work, Ben spent most of his free time fixing things, and helping with household chores. He was bathing and eating healthy meals regularly, which improved his quiet demeanor dramatically. I determined that improving on his appearance might be the greatest challenge. 

After dinner one evening I stopped by his room. I knocked on his door. After hearing some paper shuffling, he answered the door and let me in.

"So Ben, I was thinking," I started and noticed the covers askew on his otherwise neatly made bed. Sauntering to the bed to sit down, I smoothed down a raised edge. "WE were thinking actually... have you ever given any thought to attending college?"

"Sure, I've thought about it plenty. That's one of those things at the top of my list, once I can afford it," Ben admitted, glancing down at the ruffled bedspread.

"I believe you could possibly qualify for financial aid, if that would make a difference."

"Hmm, I should check that out. I only hope I'm smart enough to..."

"We're not talking Harvard here! Anybody should be able to get through Tech. Besides, I can tutor you, if you need some help," I offered.

"Damn, that's right, you used to teach didn't you Barb? That would be cool. I'll have to check out registration and stuff tomorrow after work."

"Great! I'm sure you'll do just fine. Let me know what you find out," I smiled and left his room, feeling glad he was excited about the idea.

The following day was wash day. With Ben gone, I headed upstairs to pick up any dirty clothes. I decided to strip the beds and Ben's room was next. Pulling the sheets off his bed, I noticed the edge of a magazine shoved under the mattress. My memory flashed to yesterday's conversation and Ben's awkward glance at the bedspread. After already raising a son, I figured the magazine would be the typical girlie variety. Boys will be boys. Once I pulled it out, I was somewhat reassured in my estimate. What surprised me was the title, 'Mature Bra Busters.' 

The thought of a twenty-two year old male getting his jollies from a magazine full of golden oldies freaked me out at first. Then I felt a strange sense of pride, as I thumbed through the worn pages. I noticed one particular spread featuring a 52-year-old woman in various stages of undress. Although her (probably dyed) blonde hair was a bit longer, her body shape bore an uncanny resemblance to mine. Reading the accompanying - obviously fictitious - article, it was interesting to note that "Betty Lou" wore a 34-DD bra. It was even more interesting to note that someone (Ben) had underlined the size. Since my bra size was identical, how coincidental was that? "Better stop letting him help with that part of the laundry," I resolved. 

Turning the page, there was Betty Lou in all her glorious nudity, spreading her legs to prove she truly was a blonde. With a sense of cynical interest, I read more of the article... "Betty - her name inked out, replaced with BARB - likes nude sunbathing on her boyfriend's boat and screwing two guys at once..." "God, who writes this crap? And he changed her name to BARB. Oh, my God!" Now I WAS embarrassed. I was clearly the object of the boy's fantasies.

Stuffing the magazine quickly back under the mattress, I collected the sheets and headed downstairs to finish the wash. "Just shake those thoughts out of your head, you fool!" I said to myself. "All boys have their fantasies. It's harmless," I reckoned, trying to dismiss any further vulgar images.

From behind me, I heard the back door, "Barb, you were right. Tech accepted my application!" Ben yelled over the drone of the washer.

"Hey, there ya go Ben. Good job!" I shared in his enthusiasm, putting whatever fantasies he might have for me on a back burner. 

"Yeah, I start night classes next week. I've got a counselor, books and a schedule. Now all I have to do is get smart," his eyes rolled.

"I'm so proud of you. I'm sure you'll have no trouble with these courses," I stated, scanning his schedule, while clamping a motherly squeeze on his upper arm.

"Not as long as I have your help?" Ben's eyes pleaded.

"I said I would help, and I will, okay?" I responded and wrapped my arms around him in a full hug. Pressing my chest into his, I felt his strong arms wrap around me. His warm hands moved gently to pull me closer. I backed away, with his hands still around my waist. He smiled and nodded, before letting me break away.

"Damn, I wasn't here to help with the laundry. Did you find everything okay?" Ben asked.

"Sure, no problem. I decided to wash sheets too."

"Oh, okay," Ben acknowledged, before his eyes shifted toward the stairs.

Telling my husband about finding the seedy magazine would only serve to confuse him. Besides, there was something harmless and tender about the boy. I decided to keep that bit of information to myself, for the time being.

****************

Ugly Ducklings

I spent the following few weeks dedicated to cleaning up things outside. Bundling up for the approaching winter, I made my way through a glade of trees that led to our pond. "You gonna need some help Barb?" I heard Ben yell from the house.

"Always! And bring some twine with you," I hollered back. 

Stacking the debris from dead trees and brush around the pond, I caught sight of Ben heading my way with a roll of twine.

"I thought you had a bunch of homework this weekend. No need to help with this stuff."

"Guess I just needed a break. But, if you'd rather do it yourself..." Ben smiled, exhaling gusts of billowing white steam.

"Don't be silly. Damn, but it's cold out here! You can wrap that one over there. I'll start another stack here," I advised and slapped my arms to keep warm.

Ben wrapped that stack and was tying up another bundle, when I saw a small group of mud ducks taking a water break. Tapping Ben on the shoulder, I pointed in their direction not far from us. The two of us watched as the younger ducks dutifully followed their mother.

"Now that's one ugly duck," Ben commented, at seeing a smaller duck who appeared to be the runt of the litter.

"Oh, I think they're cute," I remarked, now shivering.

Finishing up the tie job, he noticed my uncontrollable shaking and put his arm around me for shelter. "You women are all alike. C'mon now, that's one ugly duck!"

"He may s-seem that way right now, but s-someday..." My teeth chattered.

"Right, I remember the story. Unfortunately, we don't have time to watch the transformation, and besides it's a mud duck. He won't get much better looking. You're freezin' girl! Better get you back to the house NOW!"

A stiff northeast wind bore down on us, as we fast walked/ran back to the house. Slamming the door behind us, Ben looked on as I stood frozen solid. "G-GOD, I can't move." I said, as he took his parka off.

"Here, take that off and I'll fix the fire," he commanded, pealing off my heavy coat, cap and gloves.

"The ducks... that o-one ugly d-duck..." I started, trying to shift my brain from the pain in my stiff joints. "You just w-watch and see! One d-day..."

"Damn, would you just stop with the fucking ducks!" Ben rekindled the fire.

Coming back to me, he cupped my pale face in the warmth of his large hands. I felt the blood instantly return to my cheeks, while his gentle touch caressed me. Our eyes locked together for an eternity. His index fingers worked under my ear lobes. Then the slightest hint of his hands pulling me forward broke the spell. I averted my eyes from his and pulled away.

"Not for this ugly duck," I heard him mumble, as I turned away.

"What did you say, Ben?" I asked.

"Nothing, just talking to myself," he brushed off, lowered his head, and went back to stoking the fire.

I shuffled off to the kitchen to set us up with a pair of hot chocolates, and nothing else was said about ugly ducks. I knew he must have mistaken my brushing him off as a blow to his ego. If he really knew why I retreated from any further advances; that I was becoming attracted to him, perhaps that might have made a difference. If he knew this was my problem and not his? No, he didn't need to know that.

Funny thing is, from then on, he underwent more obvious physical changes. The young man's household routine started to include time on the treadmill and working out with Donny's weights. He started eating less at meals, and virtually cut out colas, which had been his major addiction. Ben was trimming down, beefing up, and basically evolving into quite a stud. 

Once they develop a mind-set, kids are amazing! In only a month's time, Ben's transformation was well underway. His once flabby overstocked belly and ass tightened up nicely, while his upper body grew thick with muscles. Except for the unmanageable hair, scraggly beard and horn-rimmed glasses, I would never have recognized him as the same twenty-two-year-old.

Considering that I might have been somewhat of a catalyst in such an impressive transformation, I was secretly proud of contributing to his makeover. Since I hadn't verbalized my part in Ben's new body, Donny (the Savior of Strays) gloated at what he thought was his casual influence.

"Old Ben's sure coming around, don't ya think?" My husband boasted during dinner.

"How's that?" I played along.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed how trim he's getting?"

"Oh that, yeah I guess he is," I replied, with a subdued smirk.

"Well, it's all my doing, you know. I told him to shape up, if he ever wanted a chance with the ladies," Donny stated, like repeating some ancient proverb.

"Hmm, and which ladies would that be?" 

"Maybe the little honey I have him set up with this Friday night."

"Oh really! And, who's the lucky girl?"

"Her name is Alicia. She's this cute little blonde receptionist that works for Watson Construction," Donny said between bites.

"You keep saying how little she is. She's not vertically challenged, I hope."

"NO. She's just petite, you know, about Meg's size," Hubby added, referring to our daughter. "Just a sweet girl – always bubbling about something or other," he added.

"So, just because this sweet little bubble head has a crush on you, you think she'll be interested in Ben," I poked him.

"I never said she has a crush... geez, the girl is like twenty-one. She and Ben will have a great time... I think. I mean, you can never tell about these things. Who knows?" Donny shrugged.

"Well I'm sure Ben will give us an accurate play-by-play," I smiled.

"Better than that; we're making it a foursome. We get to watch!"

"Hmm, thanks for letting me know. God Donny, you never cease to amaze me," I said, shaking my head. "And where do you - I mean WE - plan on taking these kids?"

"Dinner and dancing, whatcha think?" He suggested.

"Okay, and how fancy a place, so I know how to dress," I prodded him.

After rattling off all the restaurants in town, we decided Grig's Steak House & Lounge would be our best shot for having a fun night with a pair of kids thirty years younger than us. The food was good and the adjoining lounge had dancing. Dress was high-casual to low-formal, meaning we could pretty much wear anything halfway decent, without being stuffy. 

Thursday, before the big Friday, offered a pleasant surprise; and I did have to thank my hubby for this one. He treated Ben to an early date with his barber. "Oh my Lord, what do we have HERE!" I said, almost in shock. "The barber must have had a field day with you!" I exclaimed, seeing Ben for the first time with short hair and a clean-shaven face.

"I think he butchered me," Ben grunted.

"Nonsense, it looks great, Ben. Just look at you... you STUD!" I exclaimed, dragging him to the hall mirror. "See, just enough hair for Alicia to run her hands through, when you make your play for her," I said, running my fingers through his shortened locks for effect.

"Right, I'm sure. I haven't even met the girl." Ben blushed. 

Judging from his previously hidden pot marked complexion, I assumed the beard was more a practical than cosmetic decision. I'm sure he felt uncovered and quite self-conscious, as his reclusive body language indicated.

"You may not believe me, but I DO know exactly what you're going through," I empathized.

"You're right Barb, I don't believe you."

"I was a bit younger than you, when my face was ravaged with acne. My mom was always hauling me off somewhere to visit another dermatologist. This was long before they have all the fancy meds they have today. Basically, nothing seemed to work," I recalled.

"What did you do? I mean, you look... you're beautiful," Ben wondered.

"Yeah well, just don't look too close. I still carry a couple of deep scars, and makeup does wonders. No, actually I just got older. I think I was about twenty-five when things started to finally simmer down. I also believe a positive attitude might have helped."

"Telling me I should be happy about myself, and just forget what others say?" Ben recited something somebody must have offered years ago.

"Not exactly. Instead of wasting my time with that superficial bullshit, I just spent more of my energy on developing a captivating personality and a killer figure," I laughed.

"Well it worked for you; that's for sure. You're a God damn knockout!" Ben's eyes lit up.

"You goof, I was just kidding... but I'll take the compliment," I said, softly running the back of my hand against his cratered face.

"So, you got this whole date thing figured out?" Donny asked, downing his second beer, as he entered the family room.

"Sure," Ben started, "First, we get her liquored to the max, and then I take the bag off my head and screw her 'til she falls madly in love with me –how's that sound?"

"GREAT Ben, sounds like a plan to me," Donny laughed and slapped him on the back. "Just remember lift off is seven o'clock, at least that's the time I told Alicia we'd pick her up," my hubby reminded, before sinking into his recliner.

As Donny became instantly engaged in whatever was on the tube, I could see Ben was anything but settled on the subject. I left for the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. Heading toward the deck, I motioned for Ben to join me.

"Ben, will this be your first real date?" I asked, after we had sipped our coffee in silence for several long minutes.




The Process of Illumination



He quickly shot me an expression of disbelief, that I could ask such a thing, before lowering his head to a slow nod. "And you're nervous about that, or that it's a blind date?"

"Both, I guess," Ben quietly admitted.

"Well, since I have no real clue about this Alicia girl, I can't guarantee how you two will hit it off. However, from what Donny says, she's been around. That's a good thing."

"I hope you're right. I can deal with being an ugly klutz, but I don't want to embarrass you guys," Ben said.

"Now stop that talk. You're neither ugly nor a klutz. You are going to have a great time. Once you sweep her away with your charms, she'll be dieing to be in your arms," I reassured him.

"You think so Barb?"

"I guarantee it!" I promised and gave his hand a long, healthy squeeze.

****************

First Date: Play Ball!

It was slightly before 7:00 pm when we arrived at the girl's house across town. Not wishing to detract from how I figured she would dress, I wore a simple skirt, blouse and sweater combination – kind of preppy for me. I needn't have worried, the petite blonde was perfectly decked out for a night on the town. A night on the town, in New York City! The focal point of her diamond-studded belly button was set off by a revealing top that appeared to be painted on. Her super-low hip hugging jean skirt – I figured would have looked good on a twelve-year-old – just barely covered her ass crack. I didn't get a peak at her elevated glimmer pumps, until we got to Grig's Steak House.

The guys seemed impressed, and I guess that's what it's all about. As she sat in the back seat with Ben, cracking her gum and chattering on and on about her many job responsibilities, Ben barely got a word in edgewise – never mind making a play for her. However, miracles do happen. Give it some time, I thought..

Once we were seated for dinner, my belief in miracles went up in a poof of smoke. Feeling the effects of her first drink, she began hitting on my husband. What started as simply discussing things they had in common on the job soon escalated to comparing favorite colors, movies, and what is/isn't sexy. Not that Donny and I are opposed to a little extra-curricular flirting, but this was a bit over the top. I felt like I was a hundred years old, while I'm sure Ben must have thought he was too slow to play catch up. We both sat quietly and watched the Donny and Alicia relationship flourish. 

When we finished the longest meal ever, I grabbed Donny to pull him aside. Alicia bounced off to the ladies room, while Ben found us a table in the dancing side of the club.

"Alicia's quite the spark plug, isn't she?" I contained myself.

"Man, she's fired up tonight!" Donny remarked with a smile.

"Yeah, and she's aiming for you!"

"What? Oh, get serious. She's just nervous being around new people, don't ya think?"

"Babe, there's not a nervous bone in her spindly little body. She hasn't once acknowledged that Ben even exists, when she's coming on to you like gangbusters."

"Oh, you're just jealous. Wait 'til we do some dancing and she feels more relaxed around him," Donny insisted.

"Boy, I can't wait to see her relaxed," I chided and left him to find Ben.

Hubby and I found Ben sitting alone in a dark booth. "Where's..." I began, when Ben interrupted.

"Little Miss Electric? She's over there with the DJ," Ben smiled sarcastically.

"You need to hit on that firecracker Ben," Donny advised, before heading to the bar to place our order.

"Yeah right. She's just my type," Ben shook his head.

"Ben, I'm so sorry about this," I apologized.

"It's not your fault, or Donny's. Don't worry about it. I'm used to it," Ben courageously smiled, tearing the label off his bottled beer.

My husband had just enough time to deliver our drinks, when darling Alicia slid across the dance floor to grab him. Ben and I sat back in the booth and enjoyed our drinks, as Donny and Alicia slowly melted into the crowded dance floor. We lost sight of them after a few upbeat songs and I resigned myself to refocus my attention on Ben.

Once Ben confided that he had never danced, I made it my task to break him in. "Oh come on Ben, it's a slow one. Trust me; I won't attack you," I prodded him, pulling him up from the booth. He reluctantly but respectfully responded.

I had him wrap his long arm around my waist, as I took his other hand in the traditional posture. He had absolutely no clue what to do with his feet, as I tried to guide him through a simple box step. His first time clumsiness, though cute and endearing, left him feeling tense and nervous. Glancing around at the other partners dancing in full out embraces, I determined that approach might help him relax.

"Here, put both your arms around me. Don't move, just pull me close," I whispered, letting my arms encircle his neck. "There now, isn't that better?" I smiled up at him. He returned the smile and nodded. "Closer Honey," I urged. Turning my head to rest on his shoulder, I felt his hands and fingers pull my body close to his. I wished I had worn my taller heels, when he brought his pelvis to meet mine. As it was, I raised up tip-toed, when Ben's warm hand settled in my lower back. Locked in a full embrace, we stood motionless.

"Mmm, this feels good. Are we dancing?" Ben asked.

"Not quite, I think a certain amount of movement is required," I suggested, feeling the bulge of his package taking shape.

"You're probably right," he observed, but remained still.

"Maybe this will help," I said, and began moving my hips next to his. His hands dropped to rest on my hips, as I accentuated the movement. The tear-jerking ballad droned on, as I stepped up the action down below. Rolling my hips in broad strokes against his, I felt the distinctive formation of his erection.

"Well, that seems to help," he said. "At least one of us knows how to move," he added, pleased with the result.

"I'm not the only one moving, Silly," I laughed. Leaning my upper half back a bit to check his reaction, I ground my pelvis solidly against his hardon.

When he returned a blush, I shook my chest against him, and threw my head back for a laugh. "You're quite the tease, aren't you?" Ben countered and yanked my hips tightly against his crotch. His right hand fell from my hip to just above my ass. His legs, bent at the knees, mimicked my movements. Without regard to the rest of the dancers, he lowered and raised his pelvis, forcibly running the entire length of his cock against my mons. I rolled with his lurid dirty dancing for quite some time, until I felt his lips on my neck.

"My my, see what a dancer you are!" I exclaimed and pushed away from his emerging hormones.

"I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?" He feigned another blush, as I felt his left hand worm its way inside the back of my knit sweater.

"No, just getting a little warm in here, don't ya think."

"Yeah, down right HOT, if you ask me," he said, letting his hand explore more of the cotton fabric of my blouse. Looking up into his dark brown eyes, I felt my pussy twinge.

The DJ, not wanting to loose the crowded dance floor, segued into another slow, sexy R&B ballad. For fear that I had come on too strong, I stopped swaying my hips. Ben didn't. Feeling his hand lovingly caressing my back, and the length of his sizable boner pulsing against me, my juices started flowing. In spite of myself, I was succumbing to the warmth and wonder of his seduction. It was so "high school," and so delightfully wrong at the same time.

By the time I felt someone tapping on Ben's shoulder, I knew the crotch of my panties had to be saturated. Ben's hand made a quick retreat from under my sweater. I unlocked my fingers from around his neck, and suddenly found myself in the arms of my husband.

"Having a good time?" Donny winked, as I sneaked a peak at Ben making his way back to our table. 

"Me? Sure, and it appears you're having one as well," I winked back, as Donny's familiar hands and body nestled into mine. "Having a mighty good time, I'd say, judging from that!" I remarked, feeling his hard erection against me.

"Hey Baby, it's all for you."

"Feels like sloppy seconds to me," I derided

Ignoring my observation, he ran his hand down my thigh and hiked up my skirt. "A bit over dressed aren't you," he whispered, feeling my nylon pantyhose, before tonguing my ear.

"That little bitch did get you going didn't she?" I replied, letting my hand fall to his crotch.

"I admit she might have started something, but I'd just as soon finish up with you," Donny suggested, grabbing a good size chunk of my sweater-covered boob.

"Well I suppose in that case, perhaps I am a little over dressed. I can fix that."

"Good... do ya need some help?"

"I think I can manage, but thanks for the offer," I shot him a sexy glance, before pulling away from his grasp.

Heading directly to the ladies room, I caught a glimpse of Ben leading Alicia to the dance floor. "Well that's good. Maybe the two of them will hit it off," I thought.

Taking some welcome relief in the restroom stall, I peeled down my pantyhose and wet panties. Rolling them both into a tidy little ball, I stuffed them in my purse, and made my way back to the table. Drinks were lined up double, as I took a seat in the vacant booth. I had quickly downed my third vodka seven of the night, when Ben (sans the hardon) approached the table.

"Hey, what's up? Thought I saw you two dancing?" I asked, scooting over make room.

"Yeah we were doing fine, until they started playing this shit," Ben shook his head, as a booming rap song made normal conversation impossible. I only caught about a third of what he said through the din, but soon realized the reason for his dismay. Donny was happily making his dated dance steps, as spunky little Alicia approximated the dance of the seven veils around him. Taking every available opportunity to show off her goodies and rub herself against my husband, they were having a high old time. 

"There's no way I could (or would want to) compete with little Salome," I thought. Ben's polite, yet sad, smiles told me he was enjoying this every bit as much as I was. We both seemed to be on course to out-drink each other, as we struggled to sit through another mix of mind-numbing rap crap. Finally the two of them took a break and rejoined us.

"Gosh Barb, that man of yours sure knows how to dance! I hope you don't mind me stealing him away – he's such a retro stud!" She claimed, hardly able to contain herself.

"Hey you two do what you gotta do," I simmered. 

"You don't mind, do ya Honey," Donny smiled, as he gasped for more oxygen.

"Oh hell no. You guys go on and dance the night away. I've got a headache; think I'll step outside for a breather," I noted scooting out of the booth.

"You okay Babe? Maybe we should call it a night," Donny offered, taking his best shot at being a gentleman.

"No, no, I'll be okay; just need some fresh air," I said and grabbed up my waist-length fur lined coat. 

Initially, the booze numbed me against the cold, as I found my way to our car. Tripping the autolock, I climbed into the backseat and felt a piercing chill when my naked ass and legs hit the cold leather seat. I couldn't have been out there in the dark November air watching my own steam for more than ten minutes, when I heard a tapping on the window. I opened the door and slid over to make room for Ben.

"Kinda chilly out here all alone?" Ben started.

"Donny sent you to keep an eye on me, didn't he?" I asked, crossing my arms for warmth.

"What makes you say that? No, just wanted to offer some company, if ya want some."

"You're not a very good liar Ben."

"Why not give me the keys. No reason for both of us to freeze to death."

"Why don't YOU just keep me warm. You've done that before, remember?" I said, uncrossing my arms. Grabbing his arm, I pulled it over my head and nestled next to him.

"I remember, but..."

"But what? Don't want to be seen making out with a drunken old lady?" I smiled at him and ran my finger over his lips.

"God Barb, you drive me nuts. You're not drunk or old. Besides we're not making out," he stated firmly, as I continued to tease his lips.

"Why not?" I asked, and disposed of his glasses. Folding them neatly, I slid them in his shirt pocket.

"Why not what?"

"Why DON'T you make out with me? Just not your type, huh," I teased, undoing the top couple of buttons on his shirt.

"Oh God, if you only knew...but, you're married – married to my boss, for Christ sake!"

"Goodness, that's so admirable of you," I said, pulling his zipped coat apart. "I should also mention what an admirable hardon you had on the dance floor," undoing more buttons.

"Give me the keys so we can start the heater," Ben said, ignoring me.

"You find 'em and you can have 'em," I smirked, reached into my pocket and hid the keys in my grasp. Spreading my fists apart, I gave him the go ahead to search me. When he reached into my pockets, I faked putting them down my sweater with one hand, and shoved them between my legs with the other.

"You're making this difficult," Ben grimaced.

"What's difficult? I know you have a fair idea where they are. Are you too "admirable" to go after them?" I challenged, keeping my arms spread apart.

"Okay girl, if that's the way you want to play," Ben stated, nervously pulled off his gloves, and accepted the challenge. Once he undid my coat, I wiggled completely out of it. Running his hands over my sweater from front to back, he was cautious to avoid to chest. When he backed away to reassess the situation, I reached down, crossed my hands, and pulled the bulky sweater up and off.

"You know, if you gave me a kiss, I might be inclined to be more helpful," I offered, as he started undoing the buttons on my blouse. "Anybody watching right now would think we're making out anyway," I reasoned, when he suddenly stopped at the fourth button.

"Shit! Okay, but then you'll give me the keys, right?" He bargained, tearing his eyes from my opened blouse.

"As long as it's a decent kiss," I added, pulling his head close. Closing his eyes, he pressed his closed lips hard against mine. I heard a short, deep moan, as his tense lips pushed my head back against the seat. It suddenly dawned on me that he had obviously never kissed a girl before. I let his version of what kissing was all about continue, faking a few moans for some enhancement. He pulled back slowly, sensing something was wrong.

"There, how's that?" He asked. A tiny tear escaped from the corner of his eye, before he sadly lowered them. When he started to back away, I lifted his chin.

"Never back away from a kiss, Sweetheart. Come here, I want you to feel something," I said, drawing his face close again. "Close your eyes, relax, and let me kiss you." Starting at his forehead, I gave his entire face tiny, wet smooches, while my index finger prodded his tight lips to relax and open slightly. I ran my wet tongue ever so softly under his upper lip, soothing his pot-marked cheeks with my hand. His entire body seemed to take a giant exhale at that point. Feeling the tender touch of his large hand on my neck, I went to work on his bottom lip. Lacing it with my saliva, I then closed my mouth around it. When I gently sucked our mixed saliva from his lower lip, his hand lowered a few inches, weaved its way inside my collar, and massaged my bare shoulder.

Both of us were rapidly breathing together into each other's open mouth. I moved his hand from my shoulder to the front of my blouse. Opening my mouth wider, he followed suit. When my tongue darted in and out of his mouth, his fingers edged their way inside my bra. Gently pulling his hand from its intended destination, I needed for him to savor each part of me separately, and in order. Besides, as bad as my pussy was flowing again, it was all I could do not to reach down and pleasure myself. Pressing my fingers against his, he knew I wanted him to undo the rest of my blouse. My darting tongue also achieved the desired response, when his tongue answered. Turning my head slightly, the kiss I worked so diligently to promote finally began to emerge, as his fingers fumbled with my blouse.

With our mouths completely open, our tongues met in a fiery repartee of conflict and resolution. The coldness of the back seat was almost a welcome obstacle, like a splash of reality on the heat of our passion. With my blouse undone, I invited him to take it off, while begging for more and more of his thick tongue. Our moans and whispers of desire filled the frigid air, as I tugged and yanked at his oversized parka. Sitting with nothing but my bra and skirt, my goose-pimpled arms reacted to the chill. 

"GOD DAMN! I never knew it could b-be,..." Ben tried to explain.

"You know Darlin', there is something special about everyone – something that's simply perfect," I began, pulling the straps of my bra down. "You, my Dear, kiss perfectly!" I stated, glaring straight into his eyes, as I reached behind to undo my bra.

"Only because of you Barb... you showed me. Oh GOD, talk about PERFECT!" Ben exclaimed, leaning back at the sight of my bared melons.

I smiled, then grinned, before arching my back, and shaking my hair back. "Yes, I've been told that. But thanks, I'm glad you approve," I snickered and shook them for his pleasure. Needless to mention, but the arctic air had an immediate effect on my nipples, which were rock hard. 

"Can I..." Ben pleaded.

"I wish you would, please," I interrupted and leaned forward. As he slowly cupped and filled his large hand with one of my double-d's, I thought I saw shadows passing outside. Wiping the frozen condensation from the rear window to make a hole, I spied what looked like Alicia and Donny in the parking lot. "Our ballroom buddies are back," I said, pulling my sweater back on. Ben helped me back into my coat. Stashing my blouse and bra under the seat, we heard the doors unlock. I felt the warm set of keys hidden under me, as I scooted away from Ben. Donny opened the back door first to let Alicia in, until he saw the two of us.

"Here, you'd better sit up front, Alicia," he said, shutting the back and opening the rider's side.

"Jesus CHRIST it's c-cold! How come you didn't start the car?" Donny asked, jumping in the driver's side.

"I don't know. Didn't want to waste gas, I guess," I answered lamely.

"Feels good to me. I like cold weather!" Alicia bubbled, clearly drunk on her ass. "Here Donny, I can warm you up," the perky blonde offered, as she leaned over to rub my hubby's legs (I assume). "Ooops, I mean, if that's okay with you Barb?"

"Well, I must commend you Bitch; at least this time you asked," I mumbled.

"So, what's up with you two? Alicia here wants to check and see if her boyfriend is cheating on her. Isn't that right?" Donny said, starting the engine, while Blondie continued her massage.

"Hey, we were just about to discuss sports, weren't we Ben? You guys go on and have your little adventure. Don't mind us," I said, moving back next to Ben.

Lifting and wrapping his arm around me again, I reached between my legs to retrieve my set of car keys. "Guess you can stop looking for these now," I winked, shaking the keys in Ben's face. Ben's expression of exasperation was priceless. Considering where I had hidden the keys, Ben could only imagine how fruitful his quest could have been. I laughed, as Donny pulled away from the restaurant.

Alicia's incessant chatter whined on, while she moved as close as possible to Donny. I begged Donny to flip on the radio, before snuggling under Ben's arm. "So, we were discussing sports?" Ben asked.

"Not yet, but I'm thinking we should. I think baseball would be a good one to start with," I said, crossing my legs.

"Baseball?" He replied, taking note of my exposed leg.




The Process of Illumination



"Yeah, you know... getting to first base, second base, and so on," I whispered, holding his free hand in my lap.

"Hmm, you know I've always wondered just what constitutes reaching those particular bases," Ben said, nervously glancing at the rear view mirror, to see if Donny was watching.

"Well ya know, like any sport, you have to have the balls to play – that's important," I said, forcing his hand underneath my sweater.

"Balls, I see. So it doesn't matter if one player uses some other guy's equipment?" He asked, letting his hand slowly feel its way over my bare tummy.

"I figure turn-about is fair play." Bringing his hand up to fondle my tits.

"Let's get back to my first question about the bases," the boy took a deep breath, as he squirmed next to me.

"Okay, remember when you kissed me?" I asked, rubbing my hand over his thighs.

"Y-yeah."

"That was nothing. Well maybe stepping up to the plate," I laughed, making longer strokes.

"Oh, so..." He started, as his hand switched to my other jug.

"When we kissed the second time, that was first base," I explained, letting my hand find his erection.

"First base is good. I like THAT a lot," Ben admitted, taking a shorter breaths, while my fingers outlined the length of his cock.

"You're sure this is where he is?" We heard Donny from the front seat. "It's like the middle of a fucking cornfield!"

I hadn't realized how far out of town we were, until I looked up. We WERE damn near in the middle of a fucking cornfield! Except for a sprinkling of trees, this place was barren. Alicia instructed Donny to drive slowly to the treed section with his lights off. Not knowing what to expect, I stopped working on Ben and watched. Coming to a halt some 10 or 20 yards from of a few other parked cars, Alicia strained to see if her boyfriend's car was among the herd.

"Good, he's not here," Alicia said, quickly perching herself near Donny again.

"So now what?" Donny asked, after driving clear to kingdom come in search of some spacey chick's (probably fictitious) boyfriend.

"Mmm, how about..." I heard a zipper, "some of this," Alicia said, before diving head-first into my husband's lap.

"OH SHIT!" Donny yelled, and immediately swung his head around to check my reaction.

In the darkness of the back seat, I reached again for Ben's crotch. I gave Donny a wicked smile and shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, "Well, what did you expect?" Donny's confused expression soon morphed into one of surprised arousal, as his head hit the headrest. Hard sucking, popping, and slurping sounds broke through the silence, as I coaxed Ben's cock back to attention. 

"Does that make you feel better?" I whispered, as we listened to the popping slurper.

"And you're okay with... with her doing that?" Ben wondered. 

"Trust me Ben, that little twerp has nothing on me. Donny knows that. I know that. I'm letting him have a little fun. Is that so wrong?" I asked, lifting my sweater high enough to show him my boobs.

"And I suppose he's returning the favor?"

"I really don't give a shit about favors. I made a promise, a guarantee to you about tonite. I'm just making good on my promise. Don't you think that's admirable of me?" I purred, and licked the tip of his nose. When he nodded and smiled I opened my mouth on his. This time his fat tongue met mine. Pulling my tongue back in, I waited for his. When he thrust it in my mouth, I immediately sucked it in deeper. With his hand fondling my tits, I sucked it hard, pressing my chest tight against his hand. Once again, he followed my lead and roughly grabbed one of my melons. Switching his grip to the other, he twisted and pulled my nipple hard, exactly how I like.

"Oh God Ben, you're there!" I hard-whispered in his ear. "If you wondered about second base..." I gasped. 

"I feel like I could explode!" He whispered back, rocking his pelvis back and forth against my hand. I had yet to undo his jeans, when his entire body went stiff. When he held his breath for a good ten seconds, I was afraid he'd pass out on me. 

"It's okay Baby, let it go," I urged in his ear, as my grip tightened around the outline of his thick manhood. I managed to stroke it the best I could, considering his dick was still tightly embedded in his jeans. "Mmm, yeah Baby, come for me, yeah," I implored him, rubbing it harder and faster. "Don't forget to breathe," I kissed his cheek, and felt his throbbing organ about to pop.

"SHIT! Oh shit!" He stifled a yell, as his body stretched back. Gently smoothing my hand over it, I felt unmistakable globs of cum pulsating through the length of his rigid shaft. His hand jerked from my breast to somehow catch the residue. However, by the time he had undone his belt buckle, it was too late. The entire front of his jeans and part of his shirt were soaked in sticky virginal cum. 

"Jesus, I'm sorry. What a damn mess!" He apologized, as if he'd just broken my favorite vase or something.

"Ben Honey, don't be upset. You just got to third base, and not much before me," I smiled, and massaged his cum-covered tummy. "You should never be ashamed of producing such a nice big, tasty load. I'm impressed," I grinned and licked my fingers clean.

Judging from the grunts and moans coming from the front seat, I was certain that Donny and Alicia were entirely oblivious to our baseball antics. As Alicia continued to display her limited proficiency in hydraulics, I opted to play some more with Ben. 

"You're not the only one whose wet, ya know," I winked. Spreading my legs, I hiked my skirt up just high enough to show I wasn't wearing panties.

"What happened to your..."

"My pantyhose? Same place as my panties, in my purse. It's a long story."

"I hope you're not as wet..." he started, while I dipped a few fingers between my slit.

"Oh good gravy, no. I'd be swimming in it by now," I laughed. "Just thought you might like a taste," I said, wafting my fragrant fingers under his nose. His tongue darted out for a lick, but I pulled my fingers away, and lifted my sweater again. Lacing my hard nipple with some fresh female fluid, I reached behind his head to draw him to my chest.

"Mmmm, need more of THAT!" He demanded, after enjoying a few long licks.

"That will have to do for now," I said, running my fingers through his short hair. Suddenly his mouth opened fully. After sucking in as much of my boob as he could take, he switched to my other tit. I reached down to rub my clit, while he feasted on my fleshy mounds. Knowing I would soon reach the edge of no return, I pulled his head away. Still grasping his hair, I pushed his head back against the seat, and shoved two of my cum-soaked fingers into his mouth. I twisted and turned my flavor-rich fingers in his mouth, as my tongue joined in the pussy tasting.

My tongue took over again, while my hand fell to his damp jeans. He was plenty ready to shoot another load, as my hands quickly tried to undo his jeans. Fighting my way into his soaked shorts, I was barely able to get my hand around his missile when he launched another volley of starchy jism. At least this time I was able to get him off. Jerking forth several long streams of steamy cum, I deep-sucked his tongue. He snorted bursts of air, as thick man gravy thoroughly coated my hand. 

"Incredible," was the youngster's one word response, as he slowly came down from a succession of climaxes he'd never before shared. My free hand dug through my purse. Digging out my soiled panties, I cleaned up, as my hubby's orgasmic scream pierced the night air. The sound of Alicia gagging, then taking and savoring my hubby's load had little effect on me. In another circumstance I might crazy jealous and ready to bust some heads. Glancing over at Ben putting his glasses back on, I smiled. I knew this thing with him was just the tip of the iceberg. If that large, hard, young tool of his felt half as good in my pussy, as it did in my hand... now that was something to look forward to.

The uneventful drive home was quiet. Dropping Alicia back at her place, I reclaimed the front seat without a word. Once back in our garage, Ben beat a path for his room, while Donny and I made our way to bed. 

"So, what's the deal with Ben?" Donny casually asked, as we undressed.

"Not much. I was just making good on a promise. What's with your little hottie?" I asked, pulling on my nightgown.

"Hmm, I guess some things don't always work out the way they're planned," Donny admitted, repressing a smile.

"I suppose so," I agreed. Then again, sometimes they work out just fine, I thought. We kissed, said our goodnights, turned and rolled over. Right then and there I figured the subject was closed.

****************

Second Date: A $500 Investment

Regarding our brief sexually charged encounter, Ben was able to suspend whatever crush he had on me – only trying to cop a cheap feel on one or two rare occasions. I made it clear on the last occasion that such contact would not be wise. A healthy distance between the two of us was the only feasible approach, for keeping our limited relationship and my marriage in perspective. "We both had a little innocent backseat action and it was fun, but that's all it could ever amount to," I reasoned. "You need to spread your wings now and try some of that new-found technique on some sweet young thing," I admonished. A dejected, but amiable Ben regrettably agreed. 

"Honey, I heard Sonny boy here has done found himself a gurl!" Donny twanged with a nod to Lil'Abner.

"What's this?" I turned to Ben for the lowdown, as we finished up dinner. It had only been two weeks since our memorable dining and dancing episode with the bubblehead. I was happy to hear Ben didn't let rejection get him down – always best to get back on the horse (so to speak). 

"Her name is Christy. I met her at night school; we're taking many of the same courses," Ben announced.

"That's wonderful! So tell us all about her." I pressed him.

"Well, she's divorced with a kid, works at Mickey's Club during the day, and she likes me, I think... I mean, we get along," He amended.

"Wait, whoa, back up! She works at Mickey's?" Donny's eyes opened wide.

Mickey's Club, located at the end of Main Street, is our one and only official strip club, and local den of iniquity. One would assume, if you were a female employee, you must be a stripper. Donny drug me over there once, in our younger, wilder days. I wasn't all that impressed – mostly a scummy hangout for horny old guys in plaid Pendletons.

"Easy boss, she's a waitress – that's all!" Ben stated.

"Hmm, too ugly for stripping huh, too bad." Donny's sensitivity runneth over.

"Don't pay attention to him Ben. How old is she?" I broke in.

"I'm guessing she's in her thirties, and she's anything but ugly. She used to dance there, but since she had a kid she's trying to turn her life around," Ben submitted.

"She have big hooters, or is she just your run-of-the-mill droopy has-been?"

"God Donny, you're so crass," I admonished.

"Actually, Christy IS quite well-endowed," Ben admitted, sneaking a broad smile under his water glass.

"Well, good for her. I'm glad you've met someone. She sounds nice." I said, trying to smooth over my husband's rude remarks.

"Yeah, sorry old man. Bring her by any time," Donny offered.

"I appreciate that. We haven't really been out on a date yet. I've been mostly just helping her with homework assignments and stuff."

"Maybe you should bring her over, say Saturday night. We don't have any plans, and it would be nice to meet her." I suggested, subliminally playing the matchmaker. 

Rubbing his eyes, Ben agreed to ask Christy out and maybe stop by to introduce her.

"How's it coming with the new contacts," I asked, clearing away the table.

"Not too bad. My eyes itch a little at night, but I'm getting used to them," Ben said.

By now, Ben's transformation from an over-weight, homely kid into young stud was nearly complete. He would never win a beauty contest, but with his new tight physique and grooming, he was turning into quite a catch for some lucky girl. To say I was proud to be part of his personal accomplishments would be an understatement. 

The further development of his outgoing personality was equally impressive. No longer did he fear being with girls or females in general. Moreover, with his keen sense of humor, he thrived in the spotlight, and was quite relaxed, at least in my company. I soon found this quality extended to include his recent acquaintance as well. Saturday rolled around all too soon.

"You know, Ben and his new friend will be over anytime," Donny reminded me.

"I suppose so. So, what's your point?" I asked, relaxing in my robe as we watched the TV.

"I was just thinking you might like to change, you know something a little more flattering wouldn't hurt," my hubby recommended.

"So, you expect me to somehow compete with a former stripper?" I laughed, getting off the couch.

"No, I just think you'd feel more comfortable in something else, that's all."

"Hmm, and what do YOU think I'd be more "comfortable" in?"

"I don't know, how about that white halter top? You hardly ever wear it anymore."

"And, with good reason!" I said defiantly. "If it will make you happy, I'll put something on, but not THAT." Digging through my closet, I found a cute knit top that I felt less conspicuous in and threw on some jeans.

It was around 9 o'clock when Ben's late model pickup pulled into our circle drive that Saturday night. "My God, she's an Amazon!" I yelled, peering through the blinds at Ben's date, as they made their way toward the door.

"Hi guys, this is Christy; Christy this is Donny and Barb," he introduced the tall brunette.

"Hi it's really nice to meet you guys. Ben has nothing but sweet things to say about you both!" The six-foot tall striking woman replied. With her thigh-length leather jacket and deep red thick lips, she did resemble more of a dancer than a student. The phrase "built like a brick shit house" best describes this woman. "This gal is a waitress? Except for her stunning facial features, her hard body resembled that of a bouncer or lady wrestler," I thought. A highlight of their arrival was yet to come, when Donny asked to take her coat.

"Well, Ben said he met this sweet girl at school. I'm glad he brought you by to meet us," Donny said, without an excessive amount of drooling. "Here, let me take that for you," he added, helping her off with her tight fitting expensive jacket. I instantly felt my 50-plus year old double-d-cupped hangers sag lower, as out jumped Christy's 40-inch store-bought boulders. I thought Donny's jaw would have to be super glued or nailed on from then on. Her alluring, never-ending legs in that short miniskirt and slim waist line were palpable attractions, but they couldn't hold water to her volleyball-sized bosom.

Inviting the couple into the family room, I interjected a fair amount of small talk to break the ice. My husband and Ben were gone in a flash to mix drinks, as the two of us got acquainted.

"So, I hear you and Ben have some classes together?" I started.

"Oh yeah. God, if it wasn't for Benny, I don't how I'd get through those English courses," she reflected, rolling her eyes. That grammar stuff is SO boring, and hard! Just the other night we had to work on comparative adjectives and adverbs. Thank God Benny knows this stuff."

"Yeah, old Benny, he's pretty sharp," I said, recalling it was I who tutored him on the exact same exercise the night before. I thought he'd never get it.

"So you work at Mickey's," Donny said, handing Christy a glass of wine. Ben was bursting with proud smiles, as he joined her on the couch.

"Yeah, I've worked there for like seven years. I used to dance for them, you know," she said, trying to cross her long gams as respectfully as possible. "Now, since I have Sarah, that's my little girl, I need to clean up my act – a little anyway," she winked.

"I've heard some str... dancers can make good money," I said, finding myself sitting up a bit straighter.

"You bet Barb. I made GOOD money. How do ya think I could ever afford to pay for these!" She laughed, and proudly stuck out her unreal chest. We all laughed. "I still make pretty good wages as a waitress and other stuff."

"I'm sure you do. You're still a knock-out," Donny butted in.

"You know Sweetheart, I do believe this is the first time we've ever entertained a dancer," I said, directing my statement at Donny.

"Oh let's be real here guys. Dancer is just a PC way of saying I'm a stripper. I'm not embarrassed. I am a damn good stripper!" Christy cut through the bullshit.

"I KNOW you were," my hubby acknowledged a little too quickly.

"Hmm, I thought you looked familiar, Donny," Christy smiled. 

"I take it that you had the pleasure of seeing Christy perform?" Ben asked, before glancing over to catch my expression.

The fact that my husband frequented titty bars was no earth-shattering news. "Ah yeah, I think I might recall watching her perform on occasion," Donny admitted. "You were very good!"

"Thank you kind sir, but I'm STILL damn good – one of the best Mickey's ever had," Christy proudly smiled, brushing back her long dark locks.

"I guess I'm one of those jealous women whose horny husbands came home all hot-to-trot," I concluded. "I suppose I should really be thanking YOU for all that good sex," I chuckled.

"You're welcome. But hey, I wasn't doing anything any wife couldn't have done in the privacy of her own bedroom," Christy explained, taking another swig.

"Yeah right, any woman with a 40-inch chest!" I winked.

"Forty-two actually, but those are just for show. Seriously, it's all about the dance," Christy emphasized, before rising again to her feet. "Here Barb, let me get you a refill," she said, reaching for my wine glass.

"But you don't..." I started, but handed her my glass.

"Sorry, it's the waitress in me. The shrinks call it caretaker syndrome," she laughed. I joined the unpretentious Amazon in the kitchen. "I just really enjoy making people happy," she went on. "I really do miss the stripping. Is that awful of me?"

"Hey I'm sure you brought great pleasure to lots of guys," I reasoned, as we sat down at the kitchen island.

"Yeah, and women too. You'd be surprised how many women get into it," Christy added, downing another glass of port. "I think a fair amount of them just couldn't get the old man up, you know?"

"Maybe they just wanted some pointers – dance steps from a pro." I smiled, as Donny switched on the sound system.

"Oh I gave 'em plenty of pointers," the tall beauty said, lightly springing to her feet, to sway to my hubby's carefully chosen R&B mix.

Young Ben and not-so-young Donny huddled at the other side of the kitchen, like a pair of eavesdropping voyeurs trying to catch a free show. Of course Christy knew she had an audience for most anything she did. However, her attention was focused on me, and I was taking a liking to her down-to-earth, matter-of-fact attitude. She was definitely her own woman. Her self-confident, yet light-hearted, self-effacing demeanor was refreshing and fun to be around. Her voluptuous body may have resembled an authentic life-size replica of a Barbie doll, but her inner self equally shown to me, was that of a tested, determined survivor. 

"Barb, please don't take this the wrong way, but you really resemble my old dancing partner, Tiffany. I don't mean SHE was old, well you know what I mean." Christy laughed.

"Really? Hmm, guess I should take that as a compliment," I said, standing and straining to reach a snack bowl on the third cupboard shelf.

"Yeah, for sure! Tiffany totally kicked ass, when it came to dancing!" Taller Christy silently, but easily reached over me to get the bowl. "You know that movie, 'Dumb & Dumber'? Well, we were affectionately referred to as 'Big & Bigger', she grinned.




The Process of Illumination



"Thanks," I said, taking the tray from her. "Sometimes I wished I had taken dance lessons when I was a kid," I admitted, filling the bowl with chips.

"From what I can see, you have a kind of natural rhythm and flow," Christy observed.

I must have blushed, before quietly taking another swig of wine. Feeling the effects of her two glasses, Christy glided to the heavy R&B beat, adding a well-placed bump and grind when the music moved her.

"Come on Tif...I mean Barb – God, I'm sorry! You really DO resemble her," Christy took my wrists to pull me up to join her. Glancing at the wide eyes of our male vultures, I got to my feet and joined in her little impromptu dance. "I just love Marvin Gaye, don't you?" She stated, letting go of my wrists to take her wine, as she continued to gracefully step in time.

I nodded, smiled and let the music envelope me. As the song played on, I got more into it. Sensually moving back and forth, I mimicked her steps stride for stride, until we both seemed to move as one. Kicking off her tall pumps, she came closer to my height in heels. Christy took advantage of our parallel symmetry and moved to within a few inches of me. When she fixed her eyes on mine, with the look of a sex-starved vixen, I totally lost it and started to laugh. Still holding her wine in one hand, she laid her other hand on my shoulder to draw me closer. Embarrassed by my anxious laughter, I quickly did a 180, to avoid her pseudo come-on. 

This move caught her completely off guard, and suddenly I felt liquid pouring down my back. She had inadvertently spilled her port wine down my back. "Oh GOD Barb! Shit, look what I've done!" Christy apologized profusely, as the cool, sticky juice settled into my top's absorbent fabric.

"Don't worry. I think I can take it out," I proclaimed, streaking upstairs to our master bathroom. 

Yanking off my top, I surveyed the damage. Reaching back, I could feel wetness on my bra straps as well. Unhooking my bra, it was plain to see both items were soaked with the deep red port wine. Standing frozen my brain raced, trying to recall every household remedy for wine stains. Unfortunately that was the same brain I'd just recently drained a few hundred cells from, coincidently using the same diabolical substance.

"I've heard talcum powder works," Christy's voice surprised me, standing in the doorway.

"God Christy, I didn't see you!" I exclaimed, crossing my arms to hide my bare chest.

"Here, let me see," she said, gently pulling my arms down. I thought she meant the stained top, of course. "Oh God Barb, they're perfect," Christy said quietly staring directly at my bosom.

"What?" I asked, considering the seemingly irreversible damage to my clothes.

"Your boobs – they are perfect," she repeated, restraining the desire to feel them.

"Oh geez Christy, you're not..."

"A lesbian? No, I'm not queer. It's just I'm so fucking jealous," she added, eyeing every aspect of my round melons.

"YOU JEALOUS!? Give ME a fucking break, Miss 42-E, or however huge those things are!" I exploded, trying to recover my tits.

"Don't you understand? If I had anything close to that, I could have saved five grand! Instead, I get to strut around with this huge shelf, which has like zero give. It sucks." The tall, brick house confided, then proceeded to open enough blouse buttons to bare her extensive cleavage to me. Taking my hand in hers, she made me feel the super taut flesh-covered silicone.

At first taken back by such a lesbian-type activity, feeling her tits became more of a curiosity – a study in the marvels of modern enhancement. Christy was only too happy to discuss every facet of her preposterous prosthetics, showing me more and more of them as she spoke. As in so many similar cases, I assumed the reason for her augmentation started with a man. 

Wanting to please her ex-husband, who was less than accepting of her original C cup size, seemed to be the initial motivation for the addition. Off came her blouse, as she described how the changes would benefit her job at Mickey's. Off came the industrial-strength brassiere charged with the daunting task of supporting such over-sized howitzers, as Christy told all the gory details of her operation.

"See Barb, you have this large, lovely natural set, and you have no idea how priceless they truly are!"

"I wouldn't go quite that far. At my age, I simply prefer not to advertise them," I replied.

"Mmm see, more than handful for sure, but so damn supple!" Bare chested Christy said, as her hands and fingers respectfully fondled my hooters. "God if it were me, I'd be showing them off regularly," she declared.

"I'm sure Donny would be thrilled with that," I smiled derisively.

"So, give him a thrill. Don't you love him? Don't you want the best for him? Hell, I say when you've got the best to give, GIVE him the best. He'd be so proud," Christy determined. 

"Maybe I shouldn't always keep them under wraps. I'll consider it. How's that?"

"Tick-tock Lady! Now aren't you glad you don't have to haul these around?" She stated, shaking her mammoth mangos against me. I laughed. We both laughed, as I carefully hoisted her volleyballs to check the elasticity. "No need to be so tender with 'em. The only really sensitive parts are my nipples. I can barely stand to have guys suck on them – it's painful actually."

"God, I couldn't stand not having mine sucked, and sucked hard," I reflected.

"See how lucky you are! Now, let's find you something to wear, until we can fix those wine stains," Christy advised, as she pulled her heavy-duty harness back on. Still lying on the bed, my white halter caught her eye. "What's wrong with this?" She asked, picking it up.

"It's way too tight anymore and outdated, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense, it's a classic; plus you don't need a bra with it. Here try it on," She decided. As I slung the collar over my head, wrapped the one-piece halter around me, and tucked in my double-d's, Christy rummaged through my closet. "Great, why it looks terrific! Now here, try this on with it," she said, holding up an also dated dark miniskirt.

"My God Christy, my boobs are practically falling out the way it is, and you want me to squeeze into this old thing?" I challenged, gazing at the once-sexy skirt.

"Just satisfy my curiosity. Besides it'll be great for dancing." She threw it at me, as she buttoned up most of her un-tucked blouse.

"Okay," I caved in, and pulled my jeans off. Pulling the flimsy skirt up over my broad hips, I remembered how frilly it originally felt. Surprisingly, it hadn't lost that feeling over the years. Looking in the mirror, my first reaction was to let out another uneasy laugh.

"Jesus Girl, you're in great shape all the way around," Christy approved.

"Well, I have lost a few pounds. Maybe, with some nice pantyhose..." I rethought the notion.

"What for? You've got nice tanned legs. Screw the pantyhose!" 

"If you promise not to dance with any more wine bottles," I smirked, stepping into my heels.

"I promise! Now, let's give those two a show they won't soon forget," Super busty Christy bubbled.

"Just so you know Christy, I'm not planning on stripping for these guys," I made myself clear.

"I understand. Oh, and just so YOU know, I DO plan on attacking young Ben, if that's okay?" She responded as we headed downstairs. 

I jiggled like a bowl of fresh chilled Jell-O as we bounded downstairs. Donny's martini shaking came to an abrupt halt at seeing me. If his falling jaw needed fixing before, it was in desperate need of repair now.

"Close your mouth Honey. You act like you've never seen tits and ass before," I said. Judging from Ben's similar facial expression, I felt like the new hot slut in town.

"It's been a while. God, you look scrumptious!" My hubby uttered, handing me an ice-chilled vodka martini. Christy went directly to Ben's side, stealing his drink in the process.

"We should toast something," I announced.

"How about that outfit," Donny's eyes confirmed that any perceived competition between Christy and I was unwarranted. He's sweet that way.

"How about Ben's birthday?" Christy blurted out.

"Birthday? Ben, I had no idea! Is today your birthday?" I asked, feeling slighted that he hadn't shared such important information. Ben's eyes shifted briefly to Christy, then back to me for a discreet wink and a smile. That's when I figured it probably wasn't really his birthday; but perhaps a ploy to play on Christy's "giving" nature. "By all means, yes we must toast Ben and his birthday," I returned his smile and decided to play along.

Presented with the peculiar combination of wine and martinis, I decided together they produced a pleasant euphoria – an ideal combo for dancing and romance. The four of us paired off; Donny and I in the family room, while Christy and Ben remained in the kitchen. Lights were lowered. Music became a bit more sensual, and the kisses much more passionate. 

Rolling around on the floor after a brief game of tug-of-war with my halter top, Donny was able to wrestle it away from me. The two of us hadn't had playful sex for so long, it was fun to rekindle that flame as well. When he went after my skirt, I pulled the large comforter off the couch. It wasn't long before we were naked, wrapped together in the cocoon of the warm blanket. Foreplay consisted of cock tugging and clit rubbing, mixed with whispers of off-color jokes, and frequent frisky kisses. I got a major case of the giggles, but somehow managed to mount hubby's stiff hardon. With the comforter loosely wrapped around the two of us, Donny settled into a nice fucking rhythm.

The dimly lit family room afforded just enough light to see a tall shadow approaching us from the kitchen. "Sorry to interrupt; just need to use the bathroom," whispered a nearly naked Christy, as she passed through. I thought little of the intrusion and went back to riding Donny's cock, adjusting the blanket to keep us both covered.

By the time Christy returned, Donny and I were in full fucking mode. Riding high, hard and heavy, my tits flayed and circled, as the security blanket slid down around us. "God you guys, that's SO damn sexy!" Christy exclaimed, suddenly appearing in front of me. Deep in the throes of a long sweet orgasm, the best response I could offer was an open-mouthed glance up at her. Standing tall in her heels and thigh-high hose, she practically straddled Donny's head. I'm sure he got quite a view of the brick shithouse beauty. A vision that certainly didn't diminish his desire to fuck my pussy. 

"Would you guys mind terribly if we borrowed your couch?" Christy asked, fingering her pussy and fondling one of her massive mounds as she spoke. Under any other circumstance, I would have strongly refused. As it was, both Donny and I were beyond the point of no return, regarding our impending climaxes.

"Do what you want," I blurted out, before gritting my teeth and throwing my head back. Rocking and reeling from the mutual explosion of our first shared orgasm in some time, everything around me became a blur. It was several minutes later, basking in the afterglow and feeling my hubby's juices seeping from my pussy, that I noticed the naked couple making out a few feet from us on the couch.

Questioning what was normal behavior at that point would have been ludicrous. At the least, I probably should felt self-conscious. However, I (or should I say we) had a vested interest in Ben's 'education' and strictly from a clinical point of view, it was interesting and fun to observe the results of our handiwork. Poised on the couch, on all fours, Christy reached back to spread her cheeks, while Ben on bended knee edged his 10-inch long, thick rod between her slit.

"That's it Baby, give it to me," the stripper beckoned.

Watching Ben's toned rock-hard torso joining Christy's more mature, but equally tight and toned super body was like bathing our eyes in pure pornography. Not that Donny and I were minced meat by any stretch, but just observing two such well-suited naked forms was a sensual delight. Shaken from the eye candy by Donny's obvious throat-clearing, I realized I wasn't the sole voyeur. "Sexy together, aren't they?" He said, flexing his semi-erect tool inside me.

"Not bad for a pair of good looking kids," I understated, grinding my pussy to force a further response. 

"I must admit, that makes me feel a little inadequate," Donny said, motioning me to focus on Ben's sizable vulcanized manhood. The youngster's long thrusts in and out of the older stripper were genuinely a sight to behold. I'd be lying to say the idea of riding or consuming such a delectably sturdy shaft didn't affect me. However, I'm no fool.

"You know what I always say," I prompted.

"I know, it's not the size that matters; it's how you use it," my hubby quoted. "But..."

"But what? You think it's easy to watch you drooling over a stripper. I mean, talk about feeling inadequate!" 

"Don't be silly. You know I'm only TRULY turned on by the likes of you." He appeased me, as I climbed off of him.

By now, Christy had turned over to assume the missionary position. Any changes in arrangement mattered little to young Ben, as he continued to drill for oil. I had to fix myself on another diversion soon, or I would be drawn into considering nothing else but having his young tantalizing cock. Lying flat on the floor, I prodded Donny to go down on me in a sixty-nine. This way I could jack and suck him back into shape. Besides the fact that my husband gives some of the best head ever.

Performing sexually for our less than captive audience, I still delighted in emoting for effect. I was perhaps halfway into delivering a world-class blowjob when something odd dawned on me. I had to slow down and cut back my generally loud sloppy sucking to listen for it. I didn't hear it, hmm? There was nothing to hear. 

The low moans, the groans, the audible affectations of two souls immersed in the art of making love – there were NONE! The panting, the verbal lust, and tactile sounds of lovemaking that Ben and I shared in the backseat of Donny's car only a few weeks ago, where were they? I found myself literally obsessed with the absence of any sound at all coming from them. Sure, one could hear the slippery, gooey, slapping sounds of the act itself, but absolutely no sign that either one of them were enjoying or even appreciating each other.

Donny was oblivious to the eerie silence. When it comes to sex, nothing short of an atomic device could distract him. Shrugging off my aural obsessing I returned to orally obsessing. Within seconds, I was back to power sucking speed, and about to savor another orgasm from hubby's tongue. Throwing convention or nervous frustration to the wind, Donny and I both loudly reveled in our orgasms. Perhaps this was our boisterous curse at inadequacies, or was it just over emoting? Who the fuck knows or cares. It felt REALLY good to let go. 

Sometime during our thunderous copulation, the other couple must have achieved their own quiet level of carnal bliss. They were both in about the same stages of re-dressing, when Donny and I concluded our act with a final kiss. Suddenly feeling modest, I covered up, wrapping the comforter around me, as Donny put his clothes back on.

"Hey guys, how about a nightcap?" Donny offered, as if we just finished a set of gin rummy.

Combing through her long hair with a brush, Christy stated it was past her bedtime. With a combined look of pride and frustration, Ben gathered up their coats. After a series of short cordial goodbyes, they were gone.

"I'm not at all sure they actually had a good time," I remarked, picking up empty glasses.

"I know what you mean. It was kind of weird. Oh well, I got a fine piece of ass!" Donny rationalized.

"Why yes you did, and don't you forget it!" I returned and smiled.

It was maybe an hour later, when we heard the familiar sounds of Ben's truck on the gravel drive. A door slam, steps, and the key at the door. Donny had already crashed. I was downstairs still naked under my bathrobe. 

"Oh, you're still up?" Ben said, locking the door behind him.

"Just checking the thermostat. So, Christy seems nice. What'ya think?" Shoving aside my mother's intuition.

"She SEEMED nice, didn't she?" Ben shook his head.

"What's wrong? What happened?" 

"Did you ever wonder how she was paying for things like tuition, books, and raising her kid, especially since the kid's father is long gone?" Ben asked rhetorically.

"I assume she gets good tips. It never occurred to me actually," I answered.

"Me either! I should have paid more attention when she said, "and STUFF!" I believe her exact words were, "I still make pretty good wages as a waitress and other stuff." 

"Ben, you're not saying she CHARGED you for tonight!"

First his eyes lowered, then his head, before he nodded. "She's a fucking whore," Ben mumbled.

"Are you serious? How much?" I stormed.

"Five hundred," Ben shook his head.

"Oh good God. What a fucking bitch! You can't afford that!"

"That's beside the point. I suppose it's the price ya pay for being a dumb, unsuspecting sap. No woman looking that good wants somebody like me," Ben said. 

The empty wallet was one thing, his poor ego was torn to shreds. Whatever self-confidence he had reconditioned lay before him, like some terrible experiment gone wrong. Taking hold of his arms, I forced him to face me.

"Listen Babe, it's late. Get some sleep and we'll talk this over tomorrow. I'm so sorry," I said. Fighting back sympathetic tears, I turned away. He shook me back to face him.

"It really wasn't a total loss. I would have paid even more to see you like I did tonight," Ben said, staring straight into my eyes. "Hell, considering the wonders of you, I look at that five hundred as a minimal investment."

His tight grip on my arms confirmed how serious he was. Speechless in his grasp, my eyes flitted, as I searched for a quick, polite response. There was none. I couldn't bore him with some trite brush off. At the same time, I dare not reveal my growing feelings for him. My stone-cold silence would have to suffice. Studying his sad sensitive eyes, I sensed it just might have for the moment. His hands fell away. He turned and walked upstairs. 

****************

Early Morning Apparitions

By the time I returned to our bedroom, Donny was sawing major logs, and was definitely down for the count. Sleeping in the raw is not my normal M.O. However, when we were younger, hubby and I would sleep commando after a nice sex-filled evening. He must have considered tonight one of those special nights. To keep with the program, I threw off my robe and settled my naked self in next to him.

Expecting to drift off into a normal sleep, I found myself tossing and turning. The combination of recalling Ben's beautiful long cock at work, and the sight of his pained expression when he arrived back home, was enough to keep me restless. Opting to examine the sensual side of my recollections, my hand slowly massaged my labia, until I dosed off.

A dream took hold of me. Of course, now I have no clue what it involved. I only know it was sexual and vivid enough to have me in a sweat. Climbing out of bed, I pulled my robe back on. The digital clock read 5:30 a.m. Once in the bathroom, I took a nice long drink of cold water. Staring into the mirror, I ran my fingers through my hair. Erotic remnants from my dream popped into my conscious. It was Ben. One suspended thought hung in my tired, but titillated brain: the overwhelming urge to have him.

Flipping the light off, I told myself, "Get to bed. Sleep it off." That's what I said, leaving the master bath. Imagine my surprise, when my body turned instead toward the bedroom door. Making my way down the hallway, I realized the urge was too strong to deny. "This was one of YOUR rules, you fool, and you're about to break it," I cursed myself, thinking back when the scraggly-haired, young stranger first showed up at our door. 




The Process of Illumination



The morning's earliest light crept halfway up the wall in the warm guest bedroom. It was too bright. He would wake. Closing down the blinds to leave in just enough light, I turned around. Laying full out on his back, young Ben slept. "God, could he BE any sexier?" I rolled my eyes at the sight of his half-exposed body. Slimmed down, muscled-up, strong shouldered, with those tight abs, the hunk was naked down to where the bedding covered his lower half. 

Undoing the front of my robe, I let my hands imagine his broad hands caressing my body. Biting the side of my upper lip, I allowed his hands (my hands) to wander over the warm softness of my torso. Grasping my boobs, did my dampened squeal of delight stir him? Pulling the white robe farther back and down my shoulders to rest in the crux of my arms, I dared not go further. Stirring and turning in his slumber, Ben's covers inched down to just above his pelvis. My short labored breaths bordered on panting, as my greedy eyes needed to see more. That sensual, naughty part of my being shamed the pristine clarity of that holy dawn. I could hold back no longer. Edging my nervous fingers across my hips, one hand pampered and soothed my mons, while other fingers caressed the inner lips of my pussy. "This wouldn't take long," I bargained with myself for extra time to savor the taboo. With two fingers rubbing my clit, I tore my other hand away. Taking the quietest of steps forward, I leaned to uncover my unsuspicious guest. Gently lifting the covers, I immediately lost whatever voyeur status I had. That's when the cobra struck. 

With the speed and accuracy of best slight-of-hand artist, Ben's hand caught my wrist. Holding on tight, his eyes slowly opened. "SHIT!" I half-yelled, and desperately tried to pull away, with no effect. Tightening his grip, he scooted back against the headboard.

"Well now, isn't this a pleasant surprise," Ben said smiling, while my other hand did its best to cover up. "Could this be the guardian angel I was just dreaming of?" he yawned, but held fast.

"I'm not feeling very angelic, Ben. Please let go," I implored him, feeling lower than low for attempting such an unforgivable indiscretion.

"Not angelic huh, perhaps a little devil made you do it?" Ben quipped. Letting go of my wrist, he watched as I quickly covered myself and cinched up. Shaking my head in humiliation, I headed for the door. "There is one thing that concerns me. Maybe you could explain something for me?" Ben asked, stopping me in my tracks.

"Okay, okay, what is it?" I figured I owed him something for treading on his private territory.

"Come back here, where I can see you. I promise, I won't bite," his eyes sparkling.

"Okay," I replied and calmed down enough to cut the distance between us in half.

"It kinda concerns that thing with Christy..." he stated, then pulled down the covers to reveal himself. "Actually, this thing," he said, as he slowly stroked his ten-inch erection.

"W-what seems to be the problem?" I tried unsuccessfully not to stare.

"I just always figured it would be different – fucking, you know?"

"How's that? I mean, I saw you screwing the bitch," I declared and felt my pussy spasm.

"Her, her hole, vagina – whatever was... I mean I was too small for her, I guess," Ben's eyebrows furrowed with a deep concern, as the rhythmic stroking continued.

Here I am gazing at his utterly delicious cock, and trying to concentrate on his apparent dilemma. The distraction was unbearable. Unclenching my grip on the collar of my robe, I let my hands fall to my sides.

"Ben, would you please stop that?" I took a deep breath to relax.

"Why, isn't that what you came to see?" He teased, jacking his perfect tool faster.

Not really wanting him to stop, I endeavored to refocus on his question. Resting my hands on hips, the cinch job on my robe became loose. "All women are different, when it comes to size and stuff," I lamely remarked, lightly spreading the terrycloth fabric of my robe.

"And stuff, AGAIN! Can't women ever be specific?" Ben asked, slowing down his strokes to long, tight twists.

"That's REALLY throwing me off," I sighed, and gripped more fabric. Now only the slightest amount of the fabric's elasticity kept my robe from opening.

"I wasn't hoping to throw you off," he winked.

"Ben, here's the deal. Christy is used goods. She's been around the block, down the highway, and likely across the state, if you catch my meaning. She's probably stretched out a bit," I smiled.

"Oh, I see. But, what about the "stuff" part?" He asked, pumping a thin coat of precum over one of the most perfectly formed and circumcised heads I've ever seen. 

"Oh God," I shuddered and felt my robe come apart. Reaching for relief, my hand went to my pussy. Fingering myself, my other hand roughly massaged an exposed melon. "The stuff part is the intangible delights that come from the tangibles, well at least for me," I explained, while his pole seemed to grow bigger.

"So, other women, say yourself, might be okay with this."

"Oh GOD YES!" I confirmed, as I rubbed and fingered myself to the crest of an orgasm. "Tighter Ben – that's how it would feel inside me. Tighter Baby!" I urged, feeling my legs going limp.

The stud gripped his cock firmly. Using precum for lubrication, he began jacking harder and faster. "Damn Barb! That would be SO good!"

"It IS! It IS... GOOD! Feel your big cock inside me now. Come with me Baby!" I yelled. My dam broke at that point, imagining his thick manhood filling me up. Deeply fingering my pussy and rubbing my clit, I watched his eyes roll back and tightly shut. His mouth opened. His back arched and heels dug into the mattress, while his young pulsating cock exploded a long stream of white cum.

"OH GOD Barb, you feel so fucking good!" He got out, before a jolt sent him to another climax. This time, gobs of sperm poured out and soaked his tight fist. Pumping and jacking his noisy, sloppy cock, out burst yet another small load. It was all I could do to refrain from jumping on him to savor that sweet reserve of warm cum. The look of shear lust, intense desire, and satisfaction on his face was remarkable. I can't recall ever giving a man as much pleasure without touching him.

The fragile silence that followed was thick with our mutual desire to somehow complete a shared masturbation. I literally had to pull myself from the magnetic urge to have him hold me. Kisses and sweet caresses would only make things worse. Simply sharing such intimate desires, even miles apart, was so wrong – so naughty – so sweet. The affection and yearning in his eyes had to be enough.

****************

Hostess With the Mostest

Thanksgiving hardly registered on the holiday scale this year. Dinner with Donny and the kids at a posh restaurant, and that was it. It wasn't until the following weekend, that hubby discussed plans for our annual holiday bash. 

The party is one event we both look forward to every year. It allows Donny to splurge and put on a good show for the local construction firms. Since his drywall business relies heavily on their recommendations, it is imperative that everything be top notch and sparkle.

I particularly liked the parties for two reasons: one, we got to have all the food catered; and two, hubby always had me dress to impress. For me, it was like being queen for a day. Considering the guests would be mostly men, Donny notoriously had me dress "festively." I was generally cool with this, since it meant I'd get plenty of added attention. This year would be no exception, he said.

"Here, see what ya think of this Babe," he smiled, handing me a large rectangular box tied in velvet ribbon.

"A new party dress for me? How sweet!" I eagerly tore into the wrapping. "My God it's RED!" I exclaimed pulling the floor-length gown from the box.

Not fire engine red, not candy-apple red, this dress was Santa Claus, deep scarlet red. Holding the strapless garment up for size, the pure white boa-type fringe collar made the dress resemble a giant, curvy red candy stick with icing. The back featured a deep v-cut, essentially ending where my asscrack begins. Trying to visualize what to wear under it, I was pleasantly surprised to see it had built-in cups.

"You haven't noticed the main attraction, well maybe the second main attraction," Donny added, pointing to a long revealing slit strategically located dead center in the gown.

"Hmm, how convenient," I laughed.

"I'm sure you'll be outstanding in it," Donny winked, trying to picture me squeezed into such an illuminating outfit.

After a few closed-door fittings, judging from ample amount of skin showing, my husband was correct. I would definitely be the 'Hostess with the Mostest' in this creation. The sturdy wired support cups (one size too small) made my double-d's jut out like a melon vendor's pushcart. Thank goodness for the white fringe, which buffered that effect somewhat. Dressed in my tallest pumps, the slit ran from the hem to my upper thigh. Depending on how I stood or walked, the slit would open to show a little or a lot of leg. Since I know hubby prefers me in thigh-highs instead of pantyhose, I was concerned whether the netting would show or not. Not wishing to come off like a complete slut, I was happy to find a pair that offered just enough coverage.

The big Saturday arrived a few weeks later. The food, Christmas decorations, and refreshments all went off without a hitch. All I had to do was make sure I made a favorable impression. Guests started arriving before I was absolutely ready to receive them. Re-fixing my ash blonde hairdo one final time, I scrambled out of our bedroom only to bump into Ben in the hallway. The boy hadn't seen me dressed and was instantly stunned and captivated.

"WOW, don't you look... appealing." He settled on a proper adjective, while his leering gaze never strayed from my opulent melon basket.

"It's not too over the top, is it Ben?" I fretted. Backing away from me, Ben took in the whole ensemble. Silently scanning all of me, I could see he was torn trying to make a practical assessment. Then his hand moved to shift his expanding package. "I'll take that as a 'yes'," I smiled. He returned my smile, just as the doorbell rang again. "I DO apologize kind sir, I must prepare to greet our honored guests," feigning Scarlett O'Hara. 

"Oh wait, I know what I needed to ask you..." Ben suddenly snapped back to reality. 

"What's that?"

"I've got a paper due for school and my PC just took a major dump. Can I possibly borrow your laptop?" He asked.

"Sure, it's on the desk in our bedroom. Just remember to come down and join in the festivities, okay?" I said, scampering off the best I could in elevated heels. Since my stories are password-protected, I had little fear that he would discover anything juicy on my laptop PC.

I lost track of Ben after that, as a growing crowd of men and a smattering of wives arrived. Being surrounded by a bunch of well-dressed, burly, booze-guzzlers pretending to be gentlemen does have its perks. The fact that most of the middle-aged droolers had but one thing on their wicked minds didn't bother me in the slightest. A woman, at any age, loves basking in the glow of testosterone energy.

The champagne flowed freely. Donny's jokes were funny. The food was delicious. The flat-chested wives that opted to attend were all underdressed, which only allowed me to garner more attention from their spouses. Basically, everything was right with the world. 

The party had been underway for a couple of hours, when Donny stopped me in the kitchen. "Honey, would you check on Ben. I sent him to the basement for more champagne quite some time ago," my husband interjected between sharing another off-color joke with his cronies.

"No problem, I'll be right back," I agreed and turned the corner to attempt the basement stairs in high heels.

The lower level of our house is mostly open, with one unfinished section set aside as a wine cellar. In case the party overflowed, we decorated the still vacant open area. "Ben, are you down here?" I yelled, then caught sight of him facing away from me in the cellar. "What's up? Can't you find the champagne?"

"Y-yeah it's right here. I was just about to..." he hesitated, as I approached.

"So, is there a problem?" I wondered, since he had yet to turn and face me.

"W-well kind of, yes. You see I can't seem to fix this," he said, turning around. Watching his eyes lower, I spied his problem. With his zipper down, he had a raging hardon proudly on display. Judging from the pool of cum at his feet, I'd say he had relieved himself more than a few times.

"BEN! What the hell is going on?" I screeched, putting my hands on my hips, and looking like an outraged – but extremely sexy – Mrs. Claus.

"I-I can't seem to make it stop," the boy admitted, reaching to continue his endless masturbation. The sight of his reddened cock still leaking from his last climax was entirely unexpected. I would have been completely embarrassed, if it weren't for that perfectly shaped cockhead. Instead, I let him proceed with the twisted act.

"But how... why now?" I begged for some sort of logical explanation.

"Seeing you in that dress, then I stumbled on something," he caught himself.

"Stumbled on what?"

Seeing I wouldn't settle for vague expressions, he took a deep breath and spilled everything. "I started working on my school paper and stumbled on a file called The Process, and I'm pretty sure you wrote it. I KNOW you did!"

Although all my final stories are protected, I generally leave my working journals without passwords. Obviously he read my draft. Now it was me turning an embarrassing shade of crimson. My Pandora's box of x-rated feelings for the lad had been opened. 

"SHIT! I wish you hadn't found that," I replied harshly. "Those are very private things. You had no right!" I became more incensed, the more I recalled how sordid many of my writings were.

"I'm SO SORRY Barb. I really am, but..."

"But WHAT?" I grew more pissed off by the second.

"Reading your words made me realize how much I wish you knew what's been eating away inside of me," he said, jacking his bruised erection even harder. "How you, how WE couldn't touch each other, and how we can't do a damn thing about it. It drives me crazy. YOU drive me crazy!" 

"That's beside the point, Ben. You had no right."

"I have no right to want every part of you? I have no right to want to throw you down right now and fuck you forever?" His eyes burned, as his cock-stroking became a blur.

When he took steps toward me a fear swept through me. I'd never seen such a lust-filled intensity from him. Stumbling backwards, I tried catching myself on the wine racks. My precarious hold on the shelves left me unbalanced. Ben reached out with his free hand for my shoulder. I don't know if he was reaching to help me, or push me down. Either way, I ended up on my knees, practically ripping my gown. I pushed back to return to my feet. That's when I was greeted with his cock inches from my face. 

"NO! No!" I pushed against his pelvis. That strong free hand of his slid behind my head. It may not have been the most opportune time to indulge our fantasies, considering my state-of-mind and circumstance. However, one can not always pick just the right moment. At least that was my last contemplation, before opening my mouth to accept his ready weapon.

His pre-lubed manhood easily filled my mouth, as I reached to replace his hand with mine. Gripping his thickness, I heard him utter a wonderful sigh, like he'd just conquered Mt. Everest. Being this was his cock's maiden voyage into a female mouth, I definitely wanted to leave him the sweetest of memories. His deep moans and groans told me I was on the right track. 

Bobbing my head back and forth, I felt more pressure on my head. Quickly ripping his ten-inch rod from my mouth, I forewarned him, "Let me do this my way Darlin'; next time we'll do it your way." I looked up and gave him a devilish, all-knowing grin. He nodded and let go of my head.

After running my tongue in rapid circles around his perfect cockhead, I opened up and consumed it. Inching more of his young beast into my throat, I tripped my gag reflex and forced more and more of it inside. Grasping his ass with both hands for leverage, I totally deep-throated his incredible love muscle. This sent him floundering in a sea of super charged emotions. His deep, sweet masculine groans of ultimate pleasure mixed with my feminine pleas for more. 

"Yeah Baby, let me have your hot cum. C'mon now, fill me up," I urged, jacking and sucking his rock-hard dick.

"Oh Jesus, I can't... can't HOLD it!" Ben yelled, as I clamped my teeth just behind his large, finely chiseled circumcised head. Throbbing with an unconscious primal desire, his thickness grew slightly larger. "OH GOD!" The inevitable release. Like a loaded 45, his young spunk shot clear to the back of my throat in one long stream. Full-throttled pulses followed, pumping more starchy gravy into my mouth, until I could hardly keep up. Trying to grip the base of his rod, to sustain and heighten his pleasure, was out of the question. This first go around had to be a quickie. Intuition told me tasting this young man's syrup wouldn't be limited to a singular event.

Savoring his sweet virginal juices, I got to my feet. "GOD, I've never felt anything like that EVER!" He exclaimed, reaching over to rest his hand in my cleavage.

"I'll take that as a Thank You," I smiled, but smoothly pulled his hand away. "We don't have time for this now. Guests and everything. Grab a few bottles here," I advised. Taking a couple of bottles of champagne myself, I turned and headed back to the stairway. Sensing we'd been downstairs for a while, I quickened my pace up the steps. I assumed Ben was directly behind me. 

"What a fun, yummy taste, but I'd better rinse my mouth," I thought, as I deposited the unopened bottles and walked down the hall toward the guest bathroom. As I reached for the door knob a hand gripped my wrist from nowhere.

"In a big hurry there little lady," a tinny male voice said.

"Kip! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," I answered, pulling my hand from the knob.

Kip Sinclair, Bob's son is the heir-apparent to Sinclair Construction, and a generously spoiled fuckup. Just the touch of the nerdy little weasel made me queasy. 

"Having a good time?" I asked, still trying to figure why he was still holding on. 

"Not bad, but I expect to have an even better time now," he piped up, with a trebly voice reminiscent of an ex-gymnast.

I finally twisted my wrist from his grasp. "Oh, and why is that?" I wondered. Actually I couldn't care less what kind of time he had. Donny was more into placating his father. Kip was no more than a squeaky wheel his father had to grease, so his wife wouldn't bitch.

"After what I just saw, I think you and I should have a great time," the weasel smirked. Staring him straight in the eyes, it was evident that Ben and I had an unexpected audience. Scanning the hallway and ceiling for a clever, calculated response, I was at a loss. "I mean, unless you're okay with all your guests knowing you're into screwing the help?" Kip threatened.

"Shit! Come here you," I said, quickly opening the bathroom door, and pushing him in. The 35-year-old loser reassembled from my push and assumed his perception of a power stance, while I checked my makeup in the mirror. 

There was no way I would let this little creep upset my husband's party. Moreover, a scandal, even reported from such a weasel, would be extremely detrimental to hubby's chances at winning any future contracts. The infidelity issue was something I could explain to Donny, but the repercussions from something like this could wipe us out.                                                                              




The Process Pt. 02



3

She wakes up in the dark. Hands tied before her, ankles bound, a gag in her mouth, lying on her side. She moves a little and her knee knocks against something. She moves more, and bumps her head and back and feet. She hears the sound of an engine, feels movement, and realises that she must be in the back of a car. In some kind of box in the boot of a car. They must be taking her out of the hotel.

She starts knocking on the side of the box with her feet and knees, her screaming muffled by the gag. Horrible images course through her mind: that she will be left here forever, abandoned, to die of asphyxiation; that the car will be plunged into a river with her inside; that she will be dropped into a vat of concrete; that she is being handed over to snuff film makers... Panic and claustrophobia overcome her. She has never been so terrified in her life. Like a wild animal fighting death, she thrashes in the dark, desperate to break the box, to make enough noise that someone will hear, anyone...

Either the driver has heard or they have arrived at their destination, but after an endless time the car stops. She hears the boot of the car being opened, and feels the box being lifted and dropped - something like a forklift? - then being pushed on wheels. She can hear voices outside, a distant car, the sound of wheels on gravel. She tries to make a noise, but feels suddenly paralysed, so that even her gag would not be required. She is incapable of screaming. 

Finally she feels how the box is lifted again, placed on the floor, and opened. She blinks in the sudden light - even though she finds herself in a dimly lit room, the lighting is hard enough after the blackness of the box. She realises her face is sticky with tears and saliva, her body covered in its own urine. She must have wet herself with fear. 

Her handler moves into her field of vision and gently lifts her out of the box. She feels suddenly so weak that she cannot even resist or try to stand, but just nestles gratefully into his arms. "I wet myself..." she whimpers, hardly knowing what she is saying.

"You have been in there for a long time, Anna. Hush. Everything's all right." 

He carries her through what seem to be endless corridors: dark wood, carpets, dim lights, high ceilings. A country house? Then he walks into a bathroom suite that is almost as large as her old apartment, with a large Jacuzzi tub filled with water in the middle. Two naked women are standing next to it. 

Her handler kneels on the edge of the tub and carefully places her in the warm, foamy water. It's such a relief and comfort that she starts sobbing quietly. "I'll see you early tomorrow, Anna. Take good care of her." This to the two women, who, immediately after her handler leaves, get into the water with her and carefully start washing her with sponges. 

She tries to make a question, but is too weak and stunned to say anything, and, in any case, the women don't seem too willing to talk. In complete silence, they wash every inch of her body, taking away the foulness and the sweat and the grime. Then one of them gently starts to caress her body, starting at her breasts, then gradually moving down to her vulva, caressing her lips. It is not a teasing movement - rather, she seems to know exactly what to do, what to press, how to stroke - until Anna is on the verge of orgasm. The woman's face remains inexpressive throughout. 

She is about to cum, when suddenly the two women make her stand up, dry her in a fluffy bathrobe, and lead her to an adjoining room, where a huge white bed is awaiting her. The women pull back the bed covers and help her to climb in. But they down pull the covers back over her again. Rather, the woman who had previously stroked her - a dark woman of about her age, with large, pendulous breasts and wide hips - goes back to work on her vulva, while the other woman - a younger, slim blonde - kisses her breasts and gradually moves up to her mouth.

A concerted onslaught. She is assailed, unable to defend herself against this intrusive, intense pleasure, but is too weak to struggle or even protest. The dark woman brings her mouth to Anna's lower lips while the blond probes into her mouth, and she surrenders herself to the pleasure. The orgasm, when it comes, is slow and languorous and surreal, like the entire situation. She cries out against the blonde's mouth and almost immediately sinks into a heavy, heavy sleep, oblivious to everything, even to the sound of the two silent women as they close the door on their way out. 

***

She wakes to find the two silent women standing at the foot her bed, staring at her. They are dressed now: the blonde is wearing a short dark blue dress, the dark one is wearing a cream button-down blouse and a dark grey pencil skirt. They are both wearing heels.

"I thought you would be wearing long skirts and your tits would be bare," she tries to joke. "Like in the Story of O?"

The women say nothing, but just bring out some clothes from a wardrobe and proceed to dress her. Dark blue bra and culottes, blue suspenders, dark grey stockings, and a dark blue blouse and black pencil skirt similar to the dark woman's. Black heels. 

Once she is dressed, the blonde sits her down on the bed again and starts to do her makeup while the dark woman looks on appraisingly: something creamy on her face, then eyes, mouth, perfume (she sprays in Anna's cleavage, then lifts Anna's skirt to spray some between her legs). Even though she is no longer so weak, Anna submits passively to these strange women's ministrations with no protest, feeling a bit like a doll being passed to and fro. She remembers last night's kisses, and her moisture starts to well up again.

Wordlessly, the dark woman leads her out of the room. They walk down corridors and passages, the dark woman leading, the blonde behind her: past endless dark wooden doors and framed pictures, up flights of stairs, until they reach a large double door. The dark woman knocks, then opens the door, motions for Anna to walk in, and closes the door behind her. 

The library in a 19th-century English library, or as close as you can get to it, at least: a huge room with book-lined walls up to the high ceiling. Large windows at the end, overlooking a garden. Her handler is sitting at a desk in front of the windows, writing something in what looks like a ledger. He looks up. 

"Ah, Anna. Good morning. I hope you slept well. Breakfast? You must need it after yesterday." He smiles. "And no doubt you'll need your strength again today. Would some toast do?"

She nods mutely, and her handler rings a bell. The blonde comes in. "Sylvia, would you please bring us some toast and... some coffee, yes? Coffee, excellent. And some orange juice too, I think." The blonde nods briskly and - silent as always - closes the door behind her. Anna can hear her steps on the soft carpeting as she hurries down the corridor. 

Anna can't help herself. "Are they mute?" 

"Sylvia and Astrid? Oh, no. They can speak perfectly well - several languages, actually. It's just that we prefer to keep them silent most of the time. Seen but not heard. They are more useful that way."

"More useful?"

"Astrid is the main housekeeper. Sylvia is her assistant. They are the main slaves in charge of the household - although, of course, there are many other lower servants. You will soon meet them ". He looks at Anna. "I suppose you must be quite a shock for you. Well, I know it is a shock. That's the idea." 

"May I ask where I am, Sir?"

"You have been brought to our country estate. This is where the first part of your training will take place. Under my supervision. This was in today's paper - I thought you might want to take a look at it." 

He hands her a newspaper cutting. UP-AND-COMING STAR LAWYER KILLED IN FREAK CAR CRASH. The car of Anna Dixon, 37, a Cambridge graduate and a promising barrister at Edmunds, Stark & Gunn, was found in the Severn in the early hours. It is believed that Ms Dixon was on her way to Wales, where she had recently purchased a cottage, to spend the weekend, when her car swerved out of the main road and into the river. Due to the recent floods, emergency services have been unable to search for the body, which may by now have been washed out to the sea. Mark Gunn, a senior partner at her firm, has said "This is a huge blow for us. Anna was..."

She looks up from the clipping, hands shaking. It's real. Suddenly, it has become real. "A cottage?" is all she can croak out. 

"For your family. We always try to leave some sort of sizeable inheritance so that the slaves know that their relatives will be taken care of. That sets their minds at rest and makes the process considerably easier."

Her family. Even though there isn't much of it - a single aunt she hasn't spoken to in years, a distant cousin - the thought hits her like a blow. She isn't coming back. 

"You no longer exist, Anna," says her handler, as if reading her mind. "Legally, Anna Dixon died three days ago. Your assets have been disposed of, your flat has been emptied, your funeral has taken place - and a lovely one it was, too. Your friends - the few of them you had - will grieve for you, then get on with their lives. It will be as if you had never existed. And indeed, we will try to make it so that it will be as if the person who you still are had never been born. We aren't interested in that. We want the slave." 

Anna stares at him, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Just at that moment, the blonde - Sylvia - comes in and sets a tray with coffee, some toast and jam, and orange juice on the desk. She proceeds to serve her handler, then Anna. "One sugar and two pieces of toast for Anna," he specifies (Sylvia doesn't even bother to look at her). "Good girl," says her handler once Sylvia is done. "Come here." 

Sylvia kneels by her handler's chair and gazes up at him, adoringly. He takes a lump of sugar and places it in her mouth. She closes her eyes and shivers visibly as the lump dissolves. 

"Thank you, Master," she says then, her voice shaking slightly. He nods at her, and she gets up and leaves the room as swiftly and quietly as usual. 

"Did she just...?"

"Oh yes. Sylvia has been conditioned to have an orgasm every time I give her a lump of sugar, for as long as it takes of it to dissolve. She has developed quite a sweet tooth, as you can imagine," he smiles. And commands: "Eat."

Almost as a reflex, Anna picks up a piece of toast and bites into it. It's delicious. 

Her handler watches her eat. "It won't always be like this, you know. You must be ready for that. It will be... hard. Very hard. But we prefer - or rather, Iprefer - not to use brute force if possible. And I need to know you. Better than I already do. Better than you know yourself, in fact." Anna swallows. Her mouth is suddenly dry. "I know what you are thinking, Anna," her handler goes on. "You're remembering yesterday. The panic. You're remembering your old life, your friends or at least the people you called friends. It doesn't matter. Come here".

Slowly, Anna leaves the uneaten piece of toast on her plate and walks next to him, to the point where Sylvia had knelt. She kneels. 

Her handler caresses the side of her face for a few seconds, then holds her tight. "You are going to become a slave, Anna. Actually, you are already becoming one, fast. That's why you just got up when I told you to do so and knelt without my needing to tell you to. You are a slave, Anna. You have always been. And now everything else is gone. There is no going back." Suddenly he grabs her hair, pulls her head back, and forces her mouth open with his other hand. "This is what you are now, Anna." And spits, a long thread of saliva hanging from his mouth. 

She can't help it. She shuts her mouth automatically and tosses her head frantically, trying to avoid his saliva as it dribbles down onto her face. "No, no, no, no! Not that! No, please, no...!"

He holds her chin firmly and rubs his spit all over her closed mouth, her cheeks. "See? I said it would be hard. I just spit on you and see how you react. Don't fool yourself, Anna. You are a slave. But becoming what you are will hurt. To become what you are, we must first destroy what you now are. Completely."

He loosens his grip, and Anna recoils and stands up, escaping his touch. 

"Obey, Anna," he says, in a voice like iron. "Stand still. Fixed."

And suddenly, before she can even think, Anna obeys, and stands as rigid as a ramrod. He handler stands up from his chair and moves towards her. "Good," he says, obviously pleased. "I see the triggers are working. Some more conditioning is required now, though, I think..."

***

A candle, or a light, or... Something shining. Revolving, turning. A crystal? It's hard to tell. She's lost in a haze, lost in a fog of arousal and submission, guided only by the commanding words that demand her answers, that force her to tell the truth even if she doesn't realise it, even if she didn't know it herself.

"Who are you?"

"Anna Dixon."

"No. Who are you?"

"Anna?"

"No. Who are you?"

"A slave?"

"Yes. You are a slave. Why are you a slave?"

"I... I don't know."

"Why are you a slave?"

"I need it."

"What do you need?"

"To obey. To serve. To be used. To be owned."

"Why?"

A blind spot, the mind thrashing mutely, unable to comply. "..."

"Never mind. We'll get there eventually". 

The interrogation goes on and on and on, like roiling waves over her mind, until it finally collapses and goes completely under, and the words just come out of her mouth on her own like the wetness that is leaking into the towel placed on the armchair beneath her. 

***

And then she is kneeling again in front a mirror, in the library. She doesn't remember kneeling, nor does she remember getting her clothes off, or sliding onto the smooth silvery thing between her legs, or having the earbuds placed in her ears. She can only stare at herself - she thinks it's herself, whatever that is - mouthing the words that are seeping into her mind. "I am a slave. I have given myself. I am owned. There is no going back. I am a slave. I exist only to serve. I exist only to obey. I obey." 

Behind her, her handler stands, then leans forwards and removes the device from Anna's vagina (she gasps but continues to recite her mantra). Then he slides his fingers into her wet cunt, takes them out covered in her glistening juices, and removes one of Anna's earbuds. "This is the scent of your slavehood, Anna. Taste it," he whispers in her ear, and rubs the juices on her lips. "Obey, Anna. Cum."

He watches, deep in thought, as she convulses at his feet.



The Process Pt. 03



Blindfolded and gagged, body tied down onto the bed while the earbuds pump insidious thoughts into her mind and her cunt overflows. As has become her routine now, two weeks on.

As always, her handler stands nearby, watching her. So far, she has taken exceptionally well to the conditioning, but this was only to be expected. After all, anyone who is actually willing to consider becoming a slave, giving up her entire previous existence, placing her absolutely and irreparably in the hands of strangers, giving up all further decisions regarding her own life - and then actually goes through with it is someone who is halfway there. 

The hard part comes later. 

The handler knows, from his many years of experience in this strange career of his, that no two slaves are the same. Even if the final goal is full depersonalisation - or as full as depersonalisation can be, at least - there is no one template, method, or specific procedure that applies equally to each candidate. Enslavement cannot be turned into an industrial process, but rather requires extensive expertise and hands-on work. In fact, that is one of the reasons why the final result is so expensive: slaves are a commodity whose value systematically outstrips to an obscene degree that of any other luxury item. 

Ironically enough, what you need to really, utterly break a woman and turn her into a slave is knowing what she needs. Which involves knowing how that need came about. People rarely - the handler would say never - have this degree of self-knowledge, but rather experience only the outward effects of these deep grooves in their psyches: their kinks and fantasies the epiphenomena of the dark layers beneath, of which they remain entirely unaware. 

He remembers the masochist who ultimately was trying to get her mother to comfort her; the housemaid who would keep breaking glasses to be punished as she felt she deserved; the sex slave who needed to be fucked like an animal to feel that she actually existed, the very reality of her body. Once he has cracked the case, as he puts it, the real enslavement can take place, following the structures in the slave's mind which have been laid bare, and establishing an unshakeable foundation. In a way, it is a sort of therapy - forcing the woman to become the slave she really is beneath all the layers and accretions, in the unique way in which only she can become. Then matching her - and altering her, if necessary - to meet the specifications given by a suitable owner who can be assured of a lifelong possession, because by then the slave's nature has become the core of her existence, and is as natural and as vital to her as breathing. 

He likes to think of himself as a benefactor of sorts. 

He takes another look at his notes on Anna, who is proving to be a somewhat baffling case. The lonely single child of loving parents who died in an accident when she was seven, she received an excellent education at a boarding school and then in university thanks to a hedge fund. She then seems to have worked her way to a good social position through sheer determination. Pleasant but introverted, never had any real friends although she was generally well liked. A couple of boyfriends but nothing serious. Some BDSM experimenting with dominants she had carefully vetted previously. Obviously an intelligent, self-reliant woman with sufficient insight into her own needs as to try and manage them in a satisfactory way. Only, it clearly had not been enough. 

He has discarded some of the obvious possibilities. Not a masochist (at least not a physical one). Not a repressed woman who needs a Master's command to release her from being responsible for her own desires. Not bisexually curious, although her own preferences seem to matter little to her. Competent at service, although she seems equally content, if not more so, to be left staring at a wall for hours. When touched, spoken to, or even looked at by her handler, she immediately grows damp in the most satisfying way. And then there is her extreme susceptibility to hypnosis. 

There are resistances, of course, but they appear in odd places. For example, her submitting passively to the ministrations of the two house slaves, but then reacting so strongly to her handler's spitting in her mouth. Her being more than happy and eager to fellate any man in the house, yet finding it so hard to speak about herself when not under hypnosis (and even under hypnosis it's considerably harder than with most women). Her lack of shame in being naked, but her finding it so hard to masturbate while watched. Her general submissiveness but unusually intense reactions during their one-on-one sessions. 

He frowns, puzzled, then takes a look at Anna, who by now is writhing and pulling against her restraints, moaning inaudibly from behind her gag. He clicks on a remote control and the voice in her ears echoes in the room: "...no mind. There is no mind, only my words. My words are your thoughts. You are blank and empty and void, a vessel to be filled, an extension of my will. You are empty and blank and null. You will be filled with my thoughts and desires. You must be filled. Beg me to fill you."

Anna's hips are bucking now, and her usually white skin is flushed as her body tenses, a taut, sweaty bow stretched against her bonds. Her handler watches her for a few seconds in silence, then can't help himself any more. He mutes the voice, then, undoing his belt and trousers, approaches the bed, takes hold of Anna's hips, and enters her. 

She bucks and grips as she feels him inside. He holds her by her throat, and hisses in her ear: "Obey, Anna. You are nothing. You are mine. CUM." And her cunt clenches spasmodically around him as he pours himself hotly into her. 

***

She has been assigned as a maid in the kitchens under Astrid's supervision, as a way, she senses, of gradually easing her into stricter forms of service. She throws herself into this work, scouring pans, wiping the countertops down, mopping floors with a thoroughness that surprises her. And then sexually servicing Astrid and Sylvia - as well as occasional, anonymous males - with her mouth when commanded with equal thoroughness. 

Her handler watches in silence from the library through the CCTV cameras hidden in the kitchens. His assistant, a younger man, watches too, standing next to him. "Not bad, eh? She seems to be taking pretty well to the conditioning. Looks like you've got a natural on your hands there."

Her handler frowns slightly. "This isn't right. There's something missing here."

"Missing? What do you mean? Peter, for fuck's sake, the girl's perfect! Fully pliable, compliant, extremely suggestible, eager to serve, accepting everything you throw at her. Can't just you accept that you don't have to work so much for once in your life?"

"She's holding something back", mutters her handler, staring at the screen, watching as Anna proceeds to kneel down in front of a male supervisor and hungrily takes him in her mouth. "I have no idea what it is, but I intend to find out." 

***

She is kneeling again in front of him. Naked, thighs spread wide displaying her shaven pubis, arms folded behind her back, eyes lowered. Dark hair falling over one shoulder, lips parted. The perfect slave in the perfect slave pose, apparently. And yet. 

He has kept her awake because he wants to observe her in her conscious state. Which, unlike other slaves who need continuous stimulus, apparently can take long periods of waiting and silence with no problem whatsoever. She retreats into her mind, he suspects. She's just giving me her body.

"Anna?"

She raises her eyes. "Yes, Sir?"

"What are you thinking now?"

"Nothing, Sir."

He can well believe it. She possibly takes so well to hypnosis because her mind blanks naturally and quite easily. Some sort of self-regulatory mechanism, he guesses. Which he will have to smash to smithereens. 

"Why do you want this, Anna?"

"I need it, Sir."

"Yes, you already said that. Repeatedly. But why do you need it?"

She stares at him, slightly flushed. Clearly trying to say something, but coming up with nothing. She frowns and seems to struggle, mouthing slightly like a fish out of the water.Then an impotent gaze. Here, he thinks. There's something here. But what?

"I don't know, Sir." 

"When do you remember starting to have these feelings, Anna?"

"I have had very strong submissive fantasies for as long as I can remember, Sir. Since I was a little girl. I remember fantasising that a boy in the playground would tie me down with my skipping rope. I must have been about four." 

He smiles slightly. "Were you now. What else?"

"I would masturbate furiously, Sir. It terrified me. I felt like a monster. And then I came across The Story of O when I was fifteen and understood what was going on. It didn't stop frightening me, but I least I understood some more." 

"Yes", nods her handler, who has already extracted all the evolution of her younger fantasies while she was under hypnosis. "But I'm interested in earlier times. You say you were four when you started having these fantasies?"

"That's as far as I can remember, Sir." 

"When did you start thinking about slaves, Anna?"

She blinks. Says nothing, clearly confused. 

"Let's put it otherwise. What springs to your mind when the word 'slavery' is mentioned?"

She looks down, now completely flushed. "This, Sir."

"No. This is what happened when you asked for it. But I want to know why you asked for it. What was - and is - in your mind that made you ask for it. Details. Tell me: what do you associate with slavery, Anna?"

"This, Sir," she repeats, gazing intently at the carpet, her voice tiny. "Being owned. Being a possession. Having a Master." 

"That's rather generic, Anna. I want to know what images you have in your mind, what fantasies. What you see in your mind's eye." 

Emotions run across her face and her handler really wishes that he could have the brain-reading devices that feature so prominently in so many mind-control stories so that he could know exactly what is going through her mind. But all he can do is watch as she swallows hard and settles finally on a neutral expression. "I don't know, Sir. It's this. I can't really see anything else."

She's lying. He quickly goes down on one knee and grabs Anna by the neck with one hand while hooking two fingers into wet cunt. "Look into my eyes. Obey, Anna. Tell me what you are thinking." 

Something suddenly strong courses across her body and her face, so that she seems to twist around his fingers in a mixture of shame, arousal, frustration, submissiveness, and - irritation? He pushes deeper, hitting her G spot in exactly the way which he knows brings her to the brink, whispering in her ear: "Obey, Anna. You are a slave. Obey your owner. Open your mind and let me in. Obey."

She struggles against his hand, her breath increasingly laboured, her hips starting to pump compulsively against the firmness of her hand. She looks down, avoiding his searching eyes, her face darkened with her conflicting emotions. She is so close, he can feel it on his fingertips, he can smell it, so close now...

And then suddenly she looks up with an expression he has never seen before - her face contorted in resistance and despair and sheer fury - and spits at him: "FUCK YOU!"



The Process Pt. 04



He has to punish her, of course - even though, beyond the initial shock, he is more intrigued than annoyed. Immediately, he slaps her sharply in the face, once, then grabs her hair and pulls her up to her feet. Without a word, he presses a button on his desk, then drags her out of the library and down the corridor up to a door where two men are waiting. He opens the door and throws her into a dark room. When the light is turned on, she sees what is basically a minimalistic dungeon - chrome, dark glass, clean lines, a panoply of instruments which look like they wouldn't be out of place in a molecular cuisine restaurant. A Scandinavian designer's version of 50 Shades of Gray. And what looks like an Andrew cross at the back. 

Her handler seizes her again by the back of the neck, and unceremoniously brings her up to the Andrew cross, where the two men immediately proceed to roughly take off her clothes (practically tearing them off) and fasten her to the cross, facing forward. She is left naked and exposed, her feet stood on what seem like stirrups, her limbs restrained by metal. The cross seems to swivel slightly, but one of the men places a block at its foot, and stabilises it. 

Her handler takes a look at her: the slight sheen on her skin, her hard nipples, the juice running down her thighs. Her expression, terrified and painfully aroused. Ignoring his own arousal, he reaches for the crop which one of his assistants is already handing to him. He approaches Anna, then slides the crop between the folds of her vulva, brings it out sticky and glistening. 

"I think it's time for you to realise what being a slave really entails, anna," he says, and she can hear perfectly how her name has suddenly lost its capital letter. Then he takes a step back and flogs her breasts, her belly, her cunt. Repeatedly and mercilessly. 

The first strike winds her. The second one sets the skin on her entire body on fire. And the pain only grows and grows as the blows rain on her, the searing white heat like a thick mist fallen upon her mind, so that all she can feel and think is the pain. 

He grabs her by the chin, squeezing her mouth. "I can smell you, slut. This is punishment. But you enjoy that, don't you?" He slaps her sharply in the mouth again, then forces her mouth open with his fingers. "You are a slave, anna. You are property. A thing. If I want to spit in your mouth, you will open it. Happy and docile. Like the piece of fuckmeat you are." And he spits into her, a large, disgusting gob, so that even in the midst of her pain her throat heaves involuntarily as his spit slides down. "Don't like it, do you? Well, let's see what else you don't like. Seven minutes. No respite" he tells his assistants, without taking her eyes off her. Then he leaves the room. 

***

When he returns, she is hanging limply from the cross, apparently hardly conscious. He examines with satisfaction the crisscrossing welts on her white skin. Even though she marks easily, hers is the kind of skin which also recovers quickly, but the flogging has been sustained enough that the welts will last for at least a week. As will the pain. 

He comes up to the cross again and caresses her face. "How are you feeling, anna?"

She can only mewl weakly. "Please..."

"We are not done yet, I'm afraid." He unblocks the cross with his foot, presses a switch so that her restraints are loosened, and swivels the frame briskly forward, so that she is thrown headlong onto the floor. Her entire body feels like a raw, open wound. She tries to stand up, but her legs give beneath her, and she collapses again on all fours. 

"Like a dog," says her handler, reading her mind. "Like the bitch that you are, anna." He stands before her and stares down at her, monolithic and unmoving, and, through the pain, anna's stomach clenches into a knot of fear and shame and helplessness and burning arousal. Her dominant. 

He walks around her and sticks the tip of his shoes between her legs, in her cunt, her arse, and she hears her own voice crying out in pain and lust, unrecognisable like an animal's. She hears a zipper being undone, and expects to feel her handler's cock, but suddenly one of the assistants steps into view, lifts her by her hair up to her knees and slams his cock into her mouth, so hard that she retches. 

She feels someone grabbing her from behind, shoving rough fingers into her cunt and arse, and to her intense shame, she feels herself clench and juice around them. The assistant releases her head, and she sees her handler standing at a distance, coolly watching. She cums.

"Filthy," says a voice - she's no longer sure whose - but the hands continue their probing relentlessly. Someone slaps her again, and the hands drop her suddenly to the floor, and something hard is shoved up against her cunt so that she writhes on the hard wooden floor on the verge of cumming despite - or because of - the pain. "Filthy," repeats the voice, and she looks up to see her handler standing over her, and the hotness from the two men pours upon her, squirting endlessly, and she lies like a bitch in heat on the floor, in the welter of semen and her own sweat and cum, filthy, and cums and cums. 

***

He watches as his assistants carry her out of the room, unconscious. They will hand her over to Astrid's capable hands, and she will probably spend the next 24 hours sleeping, recovering, then about a week performing mostly very low-impact tasks. The punishment has been quite brutal, but she needed a sharp shock, quite badly. 

The question is, what now?

***

He has been summoned, in his own house. That would be irritating enough in itself, but he has it on good authority that he is being inspected at Finch's urging. He can well imagine that despicable little git's self-complacency, and when he walks into the room where Urquhart and Finch are waiting for him, Finch's expression is even smugger than he had expected. Which doesn't bode well for him. At all.

"Hello, Peter," Urquhart welcomes him. He's a man in his seventies, apparently warm, but always with a glint of steel to his smile. "It's been too long." 

"Urquhart," he nods, ignoring Finch entirely. "How can I help you?"

"Well, we have received a report. Concerning one of your trainees. Number 476?"

"Yes. What about her?"

"We are concerned that her training is not being sufficiently... thorough. She has been her for more than two months now?"

"Yes."

"For any reason in particular?"

"Because I saw it fit."

Urquhart raises a brow. "How so?"

"Excuse me, but is my judgement being questioned? Because you might as well let me know straight away without resorting to these subterfuges."

"There is no need to be defensive, Peter. We are just concerned that you might have developed a... weak spot for this trainee. It happens." Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Firth smirk. 

He rubs the bridge of his nose. "This trainee has... very specific needs. I believe that moving on to the next stage at this point would not be suitable. I have not yet managed to break her initial resistance."

"Yes, your famous personal approach," pipes up Firth, mockingly. "Putting the slave's needs first. You do know what we do here, don't you, Peter?"

"I know what I do, Finch," he says between clenched teeth. "You, however, seem to have taken your training methods straight from the conveyor belt. No wonder your trainees are like IKEA furniture - mass-produced, bland, and easy to break."

Firth's face becomes suddenly very red, and he's about to launch a tirade, but Urquhart holds up a hand. "Gentlemen, please. We are not here to squabble." He looks at Peter. "Two months is far too long. And from what I'm told, she seems to be pretty compliant already." 

"It's too soon. She won't react well to the methods there. She'll be broken."

"Isn't that precisely the idea?"

"Not in the right way. She is hiding something. If you could only give me one more week..."

Urquhart stares at him, a steely gaze. "If she is hiding something, Dr Farris will find it. And crush it."

"This is not the...!" he cries out in frustration, then stops himself and looks at the carpet. "This is not the right way. She'll be hurt. Perhaps irreversibly."

Urquhart watches him in silence for a moment. Then he says softly: "Perhaps that is exactly what she needs, Peter." He gets up and moves towards the door, followed by Finch. "You need to get her out of your hands soon, Peter. For your own sake. The trainee will be sent on to Dr Farris on Monday. Have her ready by then." 

***

He watches her as she scrubs a stain on the carpet with her usual thoroughness, almost obsessiveness, as if it were the most important task in the world. Since the flogging, she has reverted to her previous permanent compliance - this time, with no lapses, no reflexes, no involuntary recoiling. The perfect, docile, compliant slave - always willing, always ready, always obedient. 

And yet. 

"anna."

She looks up immediately, her body language fully denoting her slavishness: opening herself to him, torso, thighs, mouth. Perfectly attentive, perfectly ready, perfectly servile.

He wants to slap her very badly. To open her up and pry into her mind and violate her. Violate her ultimate privacy, her core, the place where she is keeping whatever she is keeping from him. "Deep sleep now, anna."

Instantly, she plunges into trance, and he watches as her body seems to sink as her mind does - the muscles relaxing while holding their position, the head drooping, lids falling. Watching her succumb, become so helpless at his command never ceases to make him instantly hard. 

Yet he knows that, deep as she now is, she is now on a platform, so to speak - an oceanic shelf hanging over the abyss. And that is as deep as she will go, no matter what he does. 

"anna, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir." Subdued, obedient. Aroused. 

"Tomorrow you will be leaving this house." She stirs. Uneasy? "You will be sent elsewhere to continue your training. It will be... different from the way we do things here. I want to remember this. When things get hard, or when you suffer - and" he breathes in deeply "you will suffer - remember this." He steps towards he and holds her head. "Remember my words. Remember my touch." He undoes his zipper and brings out his cock, caressing it lightly over anna's face. "Recite." 

"i am a slave. i am property. i am owned," recites anna as her handler's cock weaves patterns over her face, over her eyes, over her lips. "i have no thoughts. i have no will. i have no desires." Her voice grows more and more ragged with arousal as her hands droop helplessly to her sides and her hips start to buckle gently. 

"Repeat," he commands, as his erection rages. 

"no thoughts. no will. no desires. no thoughts. no will. no desires," anna repeats, over and over, as they inflame each other. 

Finally, he can't hold it any longer and slides his cock into her mouth. "Cum, slave," he groans as he spills himself into her, and she buckles wildly against his feet and legs as he drops to his knees, spouting his semen all over her naked body.

They lie side by side for a few moments, spent, he almost as dazed as her. Then she opens her eyes and gazes at him, as naked as a newborn, and something in him stirs unbearably. Very gently he holds her head again and brings it down to his softening member, and she starts to lick meekly, like a deer. Then gradually her suction, and her breathing, become more regular, and she is sucking him as a baby would to feel warm and protected and safe. 

"Remember this," he whispers, and strokes her dark head.



The Process Pt. 05



They come for her at night. 

Suddenly Astrid comes to fetch her and leads her to the bedroom, where she is handed a bag with the clothes she has been given and her coat is placed on her shoulders. She is taken out to the front door, where a large, dark car is waiting in the drive. She keeps turning her head around, looking for her handler, but he does not appear. 

A man is waiting next to the open car door. He takes the bag and places in the boot, then motions for her to get in, which she does, unnerved. There is another man sitting in the back of the car, who suddenly grabs her wrist and pushes up her sleeve. Before she can react, he injects her with something, and the last thing she remembers is the door being slammed shut next to her, and her hand frantically trying to scratch the window, through which she can see the light in his window. 

From the library, he watches the car drive away, then sits behind his desk, turns off the lamp, and sits in the dark. 

***

Ache. A dull, throbbing ache in her face, her nose, her lips. Then the numbness in her limbs, and the artificial brightness of a neon light above her. She tries to bring her hand to her face, but can't. Nor can she move her legs either. Something similar to a groan escapes her lips, and someone walks up to her, a harsh vertical to her horizontal. 

"Awake already?" asks a tall, grey-haired woman in white scrubs. "You must be hurting." 

She nods. Her face feels so numb and incredibly swollen - in fact, as she raises her head to speak and can't, she realises she is wearing a mask. She gasps, suddenly panicked. 

"Shush," says the nurse, picking up her arm, where a drip has been inserted. She removes it. "It's all right. You've been out for more than forty-eight hours. Dr Farris wants to see you now". She quickly undoes the fastenings at her wrists and ankles and helps her up to a sitting position. She is in a hospital room, she realises. Wearing just a gown tied flimsily at the back, nothing beneath. As she sits on a bed, she catches a quick glimpse of herself in a mirror at the end of the room - a pale figure in the grey, sheet-like gown. Her face covered in thick, black, padded leather, with only an o-shaped opening for a tube where the mouth should go and holes through which her eyes stare out in fright. 

"Come now," says the nurse, and helps her off the bed. She is as weak as a kitten, and almost falls to her knees, but the nurse deftly catches her and handles her onto a sitting position in a wheelchair, where she straps her wrists down again. 

The nurse pushes the wheelchair down a long, neon-lit corridor, lined by thick white doors. At every door there is a small square window, every one of them shut. She expects to hear sounds or voices, but everything is eerily quiet, with only the slight creaking of the wheelchair breaking the silence. 

Finally the nurse stops before a door with no window and knocks. A voice within says "Enter" and the nurse pushes the wheelchair in, leaving it facing a large desk behind which a tall man in a white coat is standing, leafing through a document. The nurse shuts the door and quietly stands next to it. 

The man - Doctor Farris - looks up from behind his glasses. "476?"

"Yes, Doctor Farris," says the nurse. 

"Hmm." He sits on the armchair behind the desk, still reading. "How long since the operation?"

"Two days, sir. The stitches have already been removed. The healing mask is in place now." 

"Good. Has it been any trouble?"

"None whatsoever, sir. Very docile." 

"So it seems. However..." he leaves the sheaf of papers on the desk and stares at her piercingly. "It looks as though there is plenty of work to be done. Has it been fed yet?"

"No, sir. Intravenous drip only." 

"Ok. Keep it on barbiturates intravenously for the time being, and start with the feeds tonight. Actually, I'll administer the first one myself. Is it shaved?"

"Yes, sir. Shaving seems to have been implemented systematically before arrival here."

"Well, at least they have done something more or less properly," says Dr Farris in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "Keep it that way. Of course, it is not allowed to handle the body in any way. So apply the standard restrictions, at night time and during the day. Also enemas, of course. I think that will be all for now. Take it back to the room. I'll be there shortly." He looks again into her eyes, sharply. "Is it wet now?"

The nurse takes a couple of quick steps and slides a cool hand between her thighs. "Very." She cannot help but groan beneath the mask. 

He keeps gazing at her, coolly, clinically, and she cannot look away as her juices seep onto the nurses hand. "Therapy in the morning. Intensive. Behavioural in the evening. I'll give you the details tomorrow. I'll get some coffee now and see you in the room in ten minutes' time." He stands up and walks out of the room, past the nurse. 

Before exiting, he turns and stares at her again. "This might feel like punishment," he says, and she knows that this will be the only time he addresses her. "It is." 

***

She is taken back to the room and tied to the bed again. The nurse then disappears and returns with Dr Farris and two rather burly male janitors who carry a long, transparent plastic tube and a bag filled with something fluid. Dr Farris picks up the end of the tube and inserts it in the o-shaped hole in the mask. The o-hole is lined and protrudes into her mouth, so that it is impossible to her to close it but must be permanently open. She feels the end of the tube slide through the hole and deep into her mouth. She expects that the feeding will start then, but Dr Farris keeps driving it down, into her throat, hitting her uvula so that she gags and her pharynx seizes, choking. She thrashes desperately in her bindings, panicked, trying to free herself, but the two janitors seize her and hold her down until her convulsions subside. 

"Still has a gag reflex" mutters Dr Farris disapprovingly. "Whatever have these people been doing?" He slides the tube down again and the nurse starts to pour a thick sludge from the bag through a funnel. It drops directly into her stomach, heavy and tasteless, with only brief stops to allow her to breathe. 

When the feed is over, Dr Farris removes the tube. The janitors start to clean the sludge which was spattered when she resisted, but Dr Farris halts them. "No. Leave it like that until the morning." Then the nurse slides the drip into her arm and takes out of her pocket a thick black padded leather blindfold which she brings down over her eyeholes, so that she is blind. She hears steps moving away as the drowsiness starts to take her, but before she leaves, the nurse lifts the coverings over the ears, inserts two earbuds, and closes the head mask again.

She lies in the dark, covered in sludge and her own juices which have flown freely despite herself, despite the violence and the shock. She remembers her handler's cock in her mouth and desperately wishes that she could bring her thumb to her mouth to appease herself to sleep, as she used to do in the house, but can only lie restrained and weep. 

She cries herself to sleep, gradually soothed by the soft hiss in her ears, the blurred voices seeping into her mind as the drugs slide into her veins. _A thing... an object... used... no self... no will... no desires... used... no mind... nothing_.

***

She is woken up in the morning by a male nurse, who wordlessly and unceremoniously releases her, hoist her onto the wheelchair, straps her down again, and pushes the wheelchair to Dr Farris's office. 

She is left once again facing his desk. She hasn't been washed this morning, and suspects it has been some time since she has - her body is sticky with sweat and her own juices, and she still has dried sludge on her gown. She wonders what her skin must be like beneath the mask. She feels disgusting. 

Even though this is ostensibly "therapy," Dr Farris does not address her even once. He reads out from a sheet. "476 has displayed remarkable susceptibility to hypnosis, operant conditioning, and slave and sexual training. However, the trainer in charge of 476 expresses his view that her conditioning is not yet full and recommends deeper probing." He lays down the sheet of paper. "Deeper probing," he sniffs. "What 476 needs is breaking. This is a refractory slave that we are dealing with here."

It is odd, sitting immobilised in her chair, listening to Dr Farris talk about her in the third person, when there is no one else in the room. She feels suddenly woozy. Her cunt clenches. 

Dr Farris looks at her as though he had heard - or smelt - her. He opens a drawer in his desk and brings out something large and white that he places on the desktop right in front of her. A metronome. He sets it in motion, a slow, regular, tempo, a small white light shining at the tip of the rod, leaving a slow trail of light in its arc. 

He starts to talk. "There are different kinds of mind. For most of mankind, their minds are average, relatively well-adapted. Nothing too striking, either pathologically or in terms of brilliance. Run-of-the-mill. Driven by the usual range of human desires and needs: family, friendship, children, material needs." She is becoming increasingly dizzy. Dr Farris has a deep voice, although not a particularly soothing one - it reminds her for one crazy second of David Attenborough, describing lion hunting on the savannah. Although this voice is colder, more detached. "Other minds, however, are driven by more unusual needs, which are systematically much deeper and focused than those of average minds. Very often, these desires are related to power. Some people crave power in this all-consuming way. Others crave exactly the opposite: loss of power. This desire is equally burning in them." 

He stops to drink from a glass of water on his desk, as if he were a lecturer. "These are slave minds. They ultimately yearn to lose all power and placing it in another's hands. They struggle against the very free will and powers of decision that being a human mind affords them. They often seek punishment, hoping that scourging the flesh will free the mind from its bonds. What they ultimately desire is to lose themselves. To become free of the burden of being themselves, of being human, often returning to animalistic states. To become mindless in pure, unquestioning, blind obedience to someone who is able to harness their thoughts and render them empty and null. Oblivion."

The metronome seems to be slowing down, or perhaps it is her perception that is becoming slower, sluggish. Dr Farris's voice becomes more and more slurred, as if he were drunk, yet still, amazingly, the words seem to come sharp and piercing, entering her. 

"A normal or a dominant mind would be able to stare at this metronome and not be affected, except perhaps for becoming bored. A slave mind, however, is irresistibly attracted to the slow, swinging light, the slow ticking, as its heart rate slowly drops to match its pace, the sure, steady voice in its head as its thoughts fade away, telling it what to think, what to feel, what to desire. What to be. A slave is instantly transfixed by the stimulus, like a moth to the flame. It's in its nature. It can't help itself. And instantly, like Pavlov's dog drooling, it starts to juice. And as it juices, its thoughts liquate and slide down its legs, and its mind is left empty and blank. As it should be. The slave will cum - now."

The orgasm shatters her drug-riddled body and mind, and she plunges into the darkness.



The Process Pt. 06



Flashes of memory, later. Being lifted from the wheelchair, onto a couch, strapped down again, stripped and prodded, her hips buckling in reflex. Questioning – repeated, insistent, the same questions over and over and over, staring into the light, her mouth dry, her cunt inflamed and dripping. The scratching of a pen on paper, taking notes. And the arousal, the smell, the scent of her cunt wafting constantly in the room like a narcotic.

And then she suddenly finds herself sitting on her bed, washed and smelling of soap, in a clean gown. And the nurse walks in to announce that it's time for her behavioural training.

***

She sits in what looks like a gym, straddling what looks like an obscene version of a push-up bench: only this version has two phallic protrusions, one of which is now lodged in her vagina – "to begin with," as the nurse said as she lubed her up. She is awake – sort of: the chemical soup flowing through her veins on a constant basis keeps her permanently sluggish – but she falls into a slight daze as the images on the screen before her flash. A naked woman, kneeling in a darkened room. A man standing before her – only the bottom of his trousers and his shoes appearing onscreen. The crop caressing her skin. The leather collar. And his commands as he touches. Spread. Open. Lick. Bow. Pulses in her cunt rewarding her as she imitates the woman on the screen, pulsing again as her cunt clenches, in a control and reward loop. Pavlovian conditioning, muses an old voice in her head for a second, before being quelled by the chemistry and the surge of visuals and voice. Yet she has a vision of herself as a naked bitch, tethered to the spot on all fours, her mouth forced open by wires, drooling at the ring of a bell just out of sight, and she cums helplessly. 

***

Exhausted after many repetitions and many orgasms, she feels cool hands on her, helping her off the bench. Someone she doesn't know: a woman in her twenties, exotically beautiful, her caramel skin and dark eyes and hair in stark contrast with her pale hospital gown. "There we go..." she says with a slight accent. "And... that's it." The young woman steadies her on her feet and smiles, a radiant white smile. "Wow! Must have been intense, yes?" She laughs. "Oh, sorry, I forgot you can't speak with... that on" she gestures around her face. "I'm Gabrielle. They sent me to clean you up. Part of your training, apparently... and part of mine." She smiles constantly, with such genuine warmth and glee that it is hard not to feel happy in her presence. 

She tries to make a questioning gesture, showing the palms of her hands and raising her shoulders, grabbing her gown and pointing at Gabrielle. _You too?_

"Yes, me too," answers Gabrielle. "I'm a slave. Like you.".

She tilts her head in amazement. Incomprehension. Gabrielle laughs out loud. "Yes, I know. Too chirpy by half. Not quite the stereotype. Oh well, I suppose however much brainwashing you get, there are some things you cannot really remove. Like being a total chatterbox. I hope my master enjoys conversation, because otherwise I think he'll be asking for a refund in no time at all!"

She pauses. Mimics a smile across the black leather on her face. Points at Gabrielle.

"Am I happy?"

She nods. "Ecstatically," she says, with complete honesty. "Apparently, I have already been assigned to a master, who has requested some special features, and that's why I'm here. So I can get tweaked before meeting him". Her smile turns suddenly eager, even hungry. "And I. Can't. Wait." 

A brief pause, in which both slaves imagine what the "tweaks" will be and something in them twitches. And they both know it. Then Gabrielle takes her by the hand and leads her to the showers. 

Gabrielle takes her gown off and positions her under the shower, propping her head against the tile wall in such a way that the water won't touch the leather mask. "We wouldn't want to spoilt that beautiful leather, would we." Then she lets out the cool water – "Too cold?" – pours shower gel onto a sponge, and starts lathering her up. She closes her eyes behind the mask and leans against the wall, feeling suddenly disconnected – as if the thing below her neck was something else entirely , nothing to do with her, surrendering it into Gabrielle's capable hands. 

But Gabrielle is not willing to allow her this disconnected mental privacy. Her hands roam over her body, sliding under her arms, her neck, the small of her back. Then they slide between her legs. "So beautiful... You are going to make such a wonderful slave... So naked and open and obedient..."

Gabrielle is sliding her wet fingers now over her clitoris, around her vulva, caressing her anus, at first distractedly, then more and more insistently. It's the first time a woman has ever touched her like that. "I... no..." she groans weakly.

"No?" says Gabrielle, raising an eyebrow. "A slave doesn't have that word in her vocabulary." She suddenly turns of the water and holds her head between her hands, her deep black eyes fierce. "What does a slave do?"

"Obey." 

Gabrielle suddenly seems to lose focus slightly. Then she stands up straighter and her eyes, now glassy and fanatical. "Obey."

"Obey."

"Obey." 

They stare into each other's eyes, re-echoing, in an ongoing cascade of obedience and arousal as their thighs grow sticky and their triggered minds soften and melt. Gabrielle's hand between her thighs, coaxing her into an orgasm that makes her drop to her knees – and still probing, kissing, licking, even as she lies wet on the bathroom floor, helpless to resist Gabrielle's onslaught. 

Later – she has no idea how much later – she lies there in a half daze, in a puddle of shower water and their juices, next to Gabrielle. So close she can feel her breath on her neck, smell her sweetness through the mask leather. Gabrielle then lays a hand on her waist, and she cuddles into her warmth.

***

She looks out for Gabrielle in the days afterwards, in the brief space between behavioural therapy and the time when she is taken back to her room to be fed. She starts to meet with her in the large room where other inmates are occasionally allowed to sit in the afternoons and wait between whatever is being done to them: six or seven women in the same pale hospital gowns, with the same dazed expression which she knows she also wears beneath the mask. Yet Gabrielle, when she finds her, always seems so animate, so full of life and joy, it makes her feel warm just to see her. And even though she can't talk, Gabrielle does all the talking, prattling on about her happiness in being a slave, the relief of having such a weight lifted off her shoulders, her excitement about meeting her owner, how she really can't wait. She is just happy to be so close to Gabrielle's warmth again.

Then one afternoon Gabrielle is nowhere to be found. She sits on a windowsill overlooking the garden – their usual meeting spot – and waits and waits. 

In the morning, at the time of her usual session, she finds a strange man waiting for her in Dr Farris's office. He removes her gown, places a collar around her neck, attaches a leash to it, and hands her a pair of stiletto heels to wear. She is left naked and leashed, tottering slightly – it's been some time since she last wore high heels. 

"I'm taking you out for a walk today," says the man, and walks out of the office and down the corridor, with her following behind him like a bitch. He leads her to the main entrance hall, where Dr Farris is waiting with a clipboard, which he hands for the man to sign.

"No damaged goods," mutters Dr Farris. "This one's training is not complete yet. I don't want any cock-ups. So keep an eye on it."

"Hey. The sheik is being helpful here. After all, it was you who asked if she could be present too. He's doing us a favour. Extra training."

"I somehow don't think it will be a hardship for him," replies Dr Farris wryly. 

She hears steps coming towards the hall, and another suited man comes in, leading Gabrielle on another leash, like her. Only Gabrielle is wearing no heels, and her beautiful dark hair has been completely shaved off. But what truly stuns her is Gabrielle's expression – or rather, her utter lack of any expression. She is just staring blindly, mindlessly ahead, as if gazing into some distant point which only she can see. The contrast with Gabrielle's usual happy, warm demeanour is so shocking that she reels for a second. She then glances at Gabrielle's shaved head. Dr Farris notices. 

"No. No lobotomy. Wasn't necessary," he says. Then adds, "Not that we wouldn't have performed it if it had been necessary. If the customer had specified it." He looks at her again shrewdly. "It is horrified. Yet the idea also arouses it." 

It's not a question. She realises that she had been looking for the tell-tale scar on Gabrielle's head, thought about her own shaven head, her own scar. Her own mindless, automatic compliance and obedience. Her own will forcibly removed. Cut out of her. She shudders in horrified arousal.

The man holding her leash tugs at it and leads her outside, where a large dark car with tinted windows is waiting for them. She is made to sit on the back seat, the leash tied to the armrest. The man then covers the eyeholes in her mask with the leather blindfold. The car starts, and she sits in the dark as they move, next to vacant Gabrielle, feeling her silent warmth. 

***

They travel for hours. Then the car stops, and she is taken out of the car, with the blindfold still on. A garage – she can hear the men's and Gabrielle's steps echoing – then a lift, corridors. Soft carpets beneath her feet. Doors. Then knocking, a door opening. And her blindfold is removed. 

They are standing in what looks like the penthouse suite in an extremely luxurious hotel. Large windows overlooking a night city landscape – she does not recognise the city. Then a Middle Eastern-looking man man in his fifties enters the room.

"Your Highness," says the man holding her leash. 

"Ah," says the sheik, examining Gabrielle with avid eyes. "Finally. Excellent." He turns and glances at her. "And this is... the one I will be providing an object lesson for?" he asks in an Oxbridge-inflected voice. 

"Yes, Your Highness".

The sheik laughs. "You should give me a discount, you know. I'm doing your work for you. It's lucky for your that I am such a good customer. In every possible way."

"We deeply appreciate the trust that Your Highness places in us," says the man holding her leash, dutifully. "And of course we are extremely happy that you continue to honour us with your custom." 

"Well, you are the best in the business, after all," smiles the sheik, clearly happy with Gabrielle. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to examine my property more closely. I take it that the operation was performed?"

"As per your request, Your Highness". The man sounds a bit unsettled here. "Although I would like to point out that it wasn't strictly necessary. Our brainwashing process is sufficiently intense and specific as to ensure that it will be literally impossible for a slave to experience pleasure without your permission. A... bodily procedure is really not required."

"I know, I know," says the sheik. "I'm an enlightened man, with a Western education. But still, I prefer my property to be cut. Call it a cultural specificity, or an atavism. Or just a fetish. I suppose I feel that it signals that she depends entirely on me. Even more, that is. Humour me."

"Of course." The men holding the leashes nod and diplomatically leave the room. A female servant then comes in, picks up the leashes, and leads Gabrielle and her into a bedroom. She poises Gabrielle in the middle of the room, standing rigid like a rod in front of a huge bed, and unclips her leash. Then she leads her to a corner of the room and gently presses down, making her kneel. Another servant walks into the room with a pile of what look like dark clothes, which she leaves on a chair. Then the sheik comes in. 

He sits on the bed, facing Gabrielle, who is still staring at nothingness. "Beautiful," he whispers as he caresses her naked body. He gently parts her thighs, examining her vulva, running his finger along her lips and the scar while she remains impassive. "Beautiful," he repeats. "Just perfect." He then gestures to the servants and sits back on the bed to watch. 

The women proceed to dress Gabrielle slowly and carefully, as if performing a ritual. No underwear or regular clothes. But black gloves up to the elbow, then a black abaya down to her feet. Then they place a black leather mask, similar to the one she is wearing, on Gabrielle's shaved head – only this one has no openings for the eyes or mouth, and just two nostril holes to breathe through. It is thickly padded, so that Gabrielle will be completely unable to hear or see. Finally, the women pick up a black burqa and place it over Gabrielle's body, so that the mask and her body completely disappear from view. And Gabrielle becomes a ghost. A thing, covered.

"That was the last time anyone else will see her face," says the sheik, and suddenly she realises that he is talking to her. "There is a story in the One Thousand and One Nights. A jinn keeps his human wife imprisoned in a chest because he is afraid that she will be unfaithful to him. So he only brings her out at night to fuck her. Yet she manages to steal the key to the chest and comes out during the day, when the jinn is asleep, and fucks every traveller she comes across. So the moral of the tale is, even a woman locked inside a box will fuck around."

He gazes at Gabrielle's shapeless shape fondly. "But of course I don't just want to ensure that my property won't fuck around. I also want to ensure that it will think of nothing but me. That it will exist for nothing but me. That every single breath she breathes is because of me. She will never feel sunlight again. She will be kept in the basement. In a cage and masked whenever she is not being used. Blind and mindless and in a state of perpetual arousal, perpetual yearning. No thoughts, no desires, no feelings, no perceptions. Just a thing made to be used. Is not that perfection?" He looks at her in the eye. "You want that. Mindless obedience. Ceasing to be. Existing just a thing to be fucked and used. You envy her so much right now, don't you?"

She realises that she is trembling and her mouth is so dry with arousal that she can't even swallow. The sheik smiles, then softly says "Cum," and she is swallowed by a darkness as deep as Gabrielle's.



The Process Pt. 07



She is lying on her bed. Yet her arms are not strapped down, and she realises that her mask is off. She touches her face gingerly, worried about what she might find, but feels only smooth skin – no scars or bumps or holes or anything strange. She smiles in relief, as if a huge burden had been lifted off her.

And suddenly hands push her down roughly, tie her down, and bring the dark hood over her head again. She tries to protest, reacting against the loss of the relief, the wonderful feeling of her skin once again, but a thick plug is slid into her mouth hole and she bites down on hard rubber. There are no nostrils in the mask. She realises she cannot breathe, and try to spit the plug out, but a gag is stuck over it, tied around her neck, so it will not budge. 

She is choking. Desperately, she tries to force some air in through the sides of her mouth but the plug is too thick, the gag is too thick and tight. There is no air. She sucks in noisily, frantically, through her nose, but there is no space between the tight mask and her skin. She jerks in a panic, trying to break her bonds, trying to shake the mask off, force the plug out of her mouth, but to no avail. She is going to die. 

The leather blindfold is brought down over her eyes and she is plunged into darkness as she thrashes wildly. She is going to die, she is dying. Caught in her bonds, the thick black plug filling her mouth, blind. She wishes she would pass out, a merciful death, but she continues to kick and choke and scream behind her gag, and she feels that something else is being laid out on her body – a long, thick dark piece of cloth, from head to toe, covering her like a sheet, like a burqa, like a black shroud enveloping her as she feels her death and her panic and her own horrified, desperate wetness, and she cums helplessly as she ceases to be...

She wakes up screaming.

***

The nurse comes later, when she has lain semi-awake in the drug-induced stupor, strapped to her bed, for hours. 

"Already awake?" she says. "There's a surprise for you today. " 

She feels hands untying her and helping her up, as usual. But this time, instead of helping her to the wheelchair, the nurse makes her stand up and she finds Dr Farris there, watching her. The nurse makes her stand in front of the mirror on the wall, then Dr Farris steps behind her and starts to undo her mask. 

"Let's see what it looks like now."

She feels something being untied, loosened – as if her skull were coming unstitched. Then he pulls, and the leather slides over her face, and off... 

She opens her eyes. 

A stranger. 

Eyes still greenish, but now almond-shaped. High cheekbones. Full lips like swollen plums. A stubble of dark hair. Skin white as a ghost.

A stranger with vacant eyes. Nothing there. Gone.

Her mouth opens, and she screams and screams and screams. 

***

What happens then is a blur. Kicking, screaming, biting, slapping – hitting someone (Dr Farris?) biting his face hard, biting the nurse's hand, kicking, running out, trying to escape in her thin hospital gown, barefoot – running desperately down the corridor, screaming, desperately, running, running, trying to escape. Then an impact bringing her down, winding her, throwing her down to the floor, crouching, still kicking and screaming and spitting.

People coming, restraining her. Pulling her arms forcibly through sleeves, tying her arms at her sides – a straitjacket. Then Dr Farris approaching, his face dark like the face of a wrathful god, bending down, gripping her head, and placing a ball gag in her mouth. 

"The isolation room. Now," he mutters, and turns around, nursing a bleeding cheek. 

She is left lying in the padded cell for what seem to be hours and hours, bucking and thrashing in fury at first. Then crying and sobbing wildly. 

The finally a door opens, and Dr Farris appears in the threshold, coldly watching her lying in her straitjacket, covered in tears and snot and the smell of her own fear and desperation and – yes – arousal. He stands back mutely and two male nurses walk in, pick her up, and drag her out of the cell and down neon-lit corridors until they reach a double door. They take her in. 

An operating theatre. 

She starts struggling again, seized by panic, but the two male nurses hold her in an iron grip. They remove her straitjacket and throw her on the operating table. More people appear to hold her down, and even so she is thrashing so desperately, so wildly, screaming behind the ball gag, that more people have to be called in. Finally they manage to strap her down – these are stronger restraints on her limbs, as well as a vice-like grip around her head.

They are going to lobotomise her. Her heart is thumping so hard and so fast that she must be hyperventilating. But Dr Farris just leans down, removes her gag, and quickly inserts something like a mouthguard that cushions her teeth and goes all the way in, almost down to her uvula. "Drool," he says, slightly disgusted, as he places the ball gag aside. "There'll be plenty more of that soon enough." 

Something is crackling next to her head. She can't turn her head to see it, but out of the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of a large piece of equipment, a large grey metal box, something being started, a low hum. 

A nurse approaches her and gently swabs her temples with alcohol. Then something metallic and cool is placed on them, a steel kiss. Her cunt clenches in foreboding, a sick, cold fear coursing through her body, even as her thighs grow sticky with dread and arousal. 

A male technician leans over her and attaches cables to the electrodes. Then everyone steps back from the table, and she sees Dr Farris's face hovering above her, dark against the bright light above. God in judgement. 

"I said it was punishment," he says softly, and nods. 

Lightning strikes her. Seized by a god, her body arched on her heels and neck, taut, a sacrifice on an altar as the current runs through her head and her flesh and her mind, cleansing her, torturing her, fucking her. An electric orgasm, a grand mal seizure, punishing her, loving her, reducing her, ending her, making her blank, nothing, zero. Killing her.

***

It drools. Sitting on the wheelchair, unrestrained – it is too weak, too fuzzy now to need restraints – facing the desk. Vacant, empty, mind gone. No memories, no thoughts, no desires. Lost in the blankness that it has become. Only the whiff of its animal cunt signalling the drives pulsing beneath the skin. Dr Farris gazes at it with a satisfied smile. "Good," he says. "I think we can begin properly now." 

***

Hours and hours and hours. Words pouring out of it, compulsively, endlessly, the flow of words unstoppable, words it does not even understand as they flood out, coming from a place inside which it had never even been aware of. Transparent. Open. 

The metronome, again. Hours watching it, following the slow light, the hard voice drilling into it, into its empty mind, instructing, training. The orgasms flowing as easy as the words, one after another. Unthinking, blind, the heat flowing through it, cementing the programming. 

Naked in a darkened room, on all fours, a collar around its neck. Its mouth wrapped around the cock of the man standing outside the cage, its eyes staring into nothingness. Then a bell rings in a corner, and its cunt clenches and spasms. 

On the other side of the two-way mirror, Dr Farris writes down something on a pad. The man next to him frowns, quietly seething. "And may I ask what the point of this is? Other than satisfying your little Pavlovian fantasies?" 

Dr Farris raises an eyebrow. "Conditioning is always useful. Implanting various types of triggers in a subject is a very thorough way of ensuring control. I'm surprised you don't know that."

"Don't give me that. I know perfectly well how to use conditioning. But your penchant for paraphernalia is getting ridiculous. There is no need for this... circus." He waves in the general direction of the cage on the other side of the mirror.

Again, Dr Farris raises an eyebrow, buy says nothing. "Well. Shall we discuss my report then?"

"Please," mutters the slave's previous handler, and follows Dr Farris out of the room. Not without taking one long last look at the creature in the cage. 



The Process Pt. 08



"YOU ARE FUCKING INSANE!"

Dr Farris just sits back, looking coolly at the previous handler, and says nothing.

"Electroshock therapy? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"

"It's working remarkably well," points out Dr Farris. "It was the only thing that enabled us to get past the mental block displayed by the subject. Drugs, conditioning, hypnosis - nothing did the trick. Then one ECT session, and its mind was as soft and pliable as butter."

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE. There's no scientific basis to ECT, you fucking sadist. THIS WASN'T APPROVED. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN INFORMED. What the fuck are you doing, getting your jollies by frying her brains???"

"I'd be grateful if you lowered your voice and refrained from insulting me." 

"Insult you? You are a bloody torturer!! Christ! You have been torturing her for how long?"

"Three sessions every week. For three weeks now." 

"YOU BLOODY SADIST." He is clenching the report so hard it looks as if he is about to tear it. "Christ! The memory loss, the fuzziness, the sheer DAMAGE. You do realise that electroshock is a form of torture???"

Dr Farris glances at him sharply. "And has it occurred to you that torture might be just what the subject requires?"

A shocked silence. "What?"

"Yes, there is memory loss, impairment of cognitive functions, and a general feeling of loss of control over one's mind. Which is exactly what was required. Moreover, the way in which the treatment is applied - with no anaesthesia, being forcibly, humiliatingly restrained, feeling the discharge into one's brain, the convulsing body, the sheer pain and agony of it... Of course I'm aware that ECT is essentially a form of punishment. A form of torture, as you put it. And this is a subject that needs to be punished and tortured."

"Nonsense,, mutters the former handler. "She's no masochist."

"The subject is not a physical masochist in particular, true. However, there is a tremendous deep-seated emotional masochism. Although we were only able to get to it after the subject underwent ECT. That's when the resistances were removed - after the punishment - and the subject started to really talk." 

"Talk about what?"

"It's all in the report. The subject's history." 

"Her history? There was no indication of any enduring trauma."

"Aha. That's where you went wrong." Dr Farris smiles, a smug smile. "You do know the basic facts at least, don't you?"

"Yes," the former handler grinds his teeth, seriously wanting to kill Dr Farris. "Her parents died in a car accident when she was about seven. It was a blow which no doubt cemented her submissive tendencies, but it doesn't seem to have led to any serious mental damage."

"The subject displayed strong submissive tendencies from a very young age, true - possibly linked to its relationship with its father. However, the death of the subject's parents in an accident had more traumatic consequences than you realised. The subject experienced extremely strong survivor's guilt. After the accident, it was placed in a Catholic boarding school, where it experienced serious bullying from its fellow students as well as the usual religious indoctrination. At this time, the idea of God became extremely intense and important for the subject - God who had taken its parents away, God with whom its parents were now, God as both a cruel master and the provider of peace and rest. And God as the punisher of sin - including the sin of surviving. There was also no doubt an amalgamation of God the Father and the figure of the subject's father, who had been the subject of very intense adoration by his daughter."

The former handler is staring at Dr Farris, astounded. "She told you all this after...?"

"Yes. As I said, the punishment of being subjected to electroshock therapy has removed the obstacles to accessing this traumatic part of the subject's history - mostly because the subject believes on some level that it deserves it, that it needs it. There is an extremely potent mix of guilt, sexual arousal, love, and self-hatred there. Which has led to a need to disappear. To be annihilated."

"She's not suicidal!"

"Not in the strict meaning of the word, no. The subject is not someone who would ever jump out of a window or hang itself. But during its stay in boarding school, it acquired the habit of entering what can only be described as fugue states: dissociative states in which its mind became blank and empty. These states were always accompanied by a strong arousal - and in turn, when the subject started to develop sexually, sexual arousal would often lead to the onset of a fugue state. Which became of course linked to its submissiveness." 

"Fugue states?"

"It makes sense. The subject felt intense guilt about surviving the death of its parents. It had turned God the father, the punisher and the dispenser of salvation into a central figure in its mental life. The subject actually fantasised half-consciously about dying and rejoining its parents in heaven, with God. These fugue states were a rather elegant way of accomplishing all this - escaping reality by losing its mind to an all-powerful figure, obtaining the punishment it thought it deserved, reaching sexual climax through the masochistic diminishment of its self. In a way, the fugue states were a way of dying. The death that the subject felt - and feels - it deserves."

The former handler is thinking furiously. "Not real death, though. Not literal, physical death."

Dr Farris shrugs. "Where do you draw the line between fantasy and reality? The mind wants what it wants. After all, death is the only logical conclusion to all masochistic fantasies. It's the ultimate form of mastery, the ultimate form of control. No, the subject is not a genuine suicide. And that's why it has resisted so fiercely - because it caught glimpses of the depth of its desires and needs, and the way they pointed, and was horrified. It was horrified by itself."

The former handler stares at the report pages. "So how would you recommend proceeding now, then?"

"Well. The process so far has been successful. We have managed to break down the subject's resistances and find what ultimately drives it. The question is how to leverage that in order to turn the subject into a marketable product. It depends, of course, on what kind of product you want."

"How so?"

"We produce a fairly standard type of slave here - devoted slaves, basically for sexual and domestic use, which retain most of their cognitive capacities, albeit under the owners' control. For most slaves, their libido is already based on their submissive tendencies, so it's basically a matter of intensifying this and removing inhibitions, conditioning subjects to obey automatically and respond to triggers, and so on. In this case, however, you have the submissive nature, but aligned with a deep masochistic drive towards annihilation of the self. That can be problematic, as this slave will have needs that other, more usual slaves, don't." 

"What kind of needs?"

"The subject can function perfectly well as a regular slave, with full cognitive capacities. But it also needs to be punished into oblivion on a regular basis. It will feel deep devotion for its master - much deeper than most slaves, actually - and will love and hope to be loved by its master. But for this subject love is inextricably linked to punishment and non-existence and death. This subject's master must be able to turn it into nothing. He must be both its lover and its torturer."

The former handler purses his mouth. "Her torturer." 

"Yes. But not in a merely physical sadistic way. This subject's master must seek to destroy its very existence, the core of its being, not just harm it physically. And then bring it back from the abyss. Again and again and again. It's a very complex proposition, as you can see." 

"So, my question stands. How do you suggest proceeding, then?"

"Well, the subject has, so to speak, two personas now. One is anna, an intelligent, devoted slave, with many skills and capabilities which would make it a very valuable asset on the market. But there is also what I call the it-persona - the slave that seeks to disappear, to have no mind, to become blank, to be punished into non-existence, to cease to be. The slave that seeks its own destruction. Both personas are quite incompatible, in my view. Someone interested in the anna slave would no doubt find the it-persona rather demanding and tiresome, and if ignored, it would lead to the bursts of resistance which you have witnessed, making anna useless as a sellable slave. The it-persona, however, would make a sellable asset for a... more specialised market."

"What kind of market?"

"Serious sadists, basically. If we erased the anna persona altogether and left the it-persona, we would have a more marketable asset for this segment. With some intense conditioning, we could even make the subject focus more on physical masochism, turning it into a pain slut. Then there are snuff movies, of course." He sees the former handler's horrified reaction and goes on smoothly. "And then there's the third option, which I think would be best. Removing the anna-persona entirely and turning the it-persona into a drone. A mindless, unthinking drone, with entirely programmed behaviour, basically undistinguishable from a zombie. That would satisfy the subject's need for self-annihilation, leading to its mental balance - if only because its mind would have been completely flattened. And it would suffice with a more intensive course of electroshocks, stronger drugs, and programming. The subject is halfway there already, anyway."

The former handler is staring at the table. "So you don't think the anna persona is salvageable?"

"In economic terms, it makes no sense. Owners don't want complex slaves that require constant upkeep. They want sweet girls who will comply with their every whim, or pain sluts, or drones that are essentially human appliances. But this kind of depth? All this complication? No. No-one would buy this subject as it is." 

"I see," says the former handler. "Well, the auction will be next week. I suppose we'll have to see who buys her and what their preferences are, and then we will let you know which option is chosen so you can make the necessary tweaks." He stands up. "Thank you. I'll see myself out." 

He walks down the corridor towards the stairs, deep in thought, and turns around a corner just as the creature is being wheeled out of the display room in its cage. He stops for a second, looks down at it. Its shaven head, the thick collar, the new face. Its vacant eyes. His arousal is immediate, sharp as a blow. 

The creature looks up and sees him. It stares into his eyes. And then, still holding his gaze, slowly and painfully, as if dragging a huge beast from an unthinkable sea depth, it raises its hand to its mouth and sucks on its thumb.



The Process Pt. 09: Final



"Yes, the new embassy building is hideous, n'est-ce pas?" says the man with the French accent. "All this trendy architecture - the concrete, the metal, the ugly spikes. Néanmoins, it is my duty as the ambassador to sit there every day and uphold the virtues of French architecture. Fortunately, from my office building I can only see the garden - so I must be very original, someone who is glad to be in a building just so he won't have to see it."

The other dinner guests titter politely. Then the beautiful woman sitting next to the ambassador - the hostess - turns and says: "Actually, you aren't being that original, I'm afraid, Ambassador. Isn't that similar to what Guy de Maupassant said about the Eiffel Tower? Je déteste la Tour Eiffel. J'y vais manger tous les jours, comme ça, je ne la vois pas."

The ambassador stares for a second, surprised, then laughs. The woman takes a look at the man sitting across the table, who nods with a slight smile, in approval, as the ambassador leans forward and engages her in conversation in French, glimpsing briefly at her décolletage. 

***

The hosts stand next to the door as the dinner guests file by. As the woman kisses a blonde socialite goodbye, a male guests shakes the host's hand, moves closer, and says cheerfully: "Congratulations, old chap. She's far too good for the likes of you."

The man smiles, taking a quick side look at his partner, who is being held for a few seconds too long by an elderly MP. "Oh, I'm well aware of that."

After most of the guests have left, the man grabs the woman and squeezes her bottom through the thin eau-de-Nil shift she is wearing. 

"Did I do well?" asks the woman, slightly breathlessly, as she starts to be caught in her own arousal. "Did it go well?"

"Well? My dear, you just got us the contract with that look you threw at Williamson. And I think it's fair to say that we will be hearing from the French people soon, too." 

The woman smiles radiantly, delighted like a little girl who is elated to be praised. 

"I told some friends to stay for a whil" whispers the man, caressing her side and making her shudder. "Could you bring us some coffee up to the library, please? Five cups."

The woman smiles in pleasure and hurries to the kitchen, followed by his fond look. 

When the coffee is ready, she carefully sets the cups and cutlery, the hot coffee in its pot, the milk jug, the sugar, the napkins, on a tray and carries them upstairs. She walks up to the library door, knocks, and enters.

The men are sitting around the room, chatting, and stand up as she comes in, helping her to place the tray on the desk. She pours the coffee for each of them, who thank her politely. Then her handler walks up to the door, closes it behind her, moves up to her, and the real meeting starts. 

"Deep sleep now, anna."

***

"Can she hear us?"

"Of course she can hear us. She's hypnotised, not asleep."

"That's amazing." 

She finds herself in the familiar position - kneeling, thighs spread, arms behind her back, naked. She has a brief flash of the sudden shock of trance crashing over her as a dark wave, the green shift dropping to the floor like a puddle around her feet, her feet stepping out, the collective men from the watching men at her nakedness, her glazed look, her sudden helplessness. Her obedience. 

A familiar voice. "To be honest, I didn't think you would be able to pull it off, Peter. Everyone thought she would be far too gone into the brainwashing process, that she would only be of any use as a drone." 

"By 'everyone' you mean Farris, I take it". 

"Well, yes." 

A brief silence. "Farris was right in his diagnosis of her... mental structure, I'll give him that. He underestimated her resilience. I think Farris underestimates human beings as a species, actually."

He takes a look at anna, who is gazing at him, calmly focused, waiting. She can wait the rest of the night - the rest of the week - with no sound, no complaint, even though he can smell her dripping cunt from her seat. He smiles softly. "anna. Come here." 

Gracefully, she crawls on all fours towards him and stops between his knees, gazing adoringly up at him. "Good girl," he pats her head. She closes her eyes and nuzzles against his leg, against his hand, happy, asking for nothing. 

"I'll be honest, Peter," says another voice, with a slightly awed tinge. "I never thought they would let you out. I didn't think..."

"I sold my shares in my business to buy her. And there was plenty left over to start our business, which, I must say, is going quite well. Everything was done strictly above board." 

"Come on, Peter. One doesn't leave our line of work just like that..."

"Well, they have got things on me and I have got things on them. If either party did anything, it would be a lose-lose situation for everyone. It's just a version of the prisoners' dilemma, and I think everyone involved is intelligent enough to understand it." Her handler's tone takes a somewhat steely tone. "So you can go back to Urquhart and tell him that he'll get no trouble from me..." He looks up from ann to his guests. "As long as we get none either."

There is an embarrassed pause - anna can hear the guests shift awkwardly in their seats, slurp their coffee. Then a younger man - her handler's former assistant - can't help himself and asks:

"Was it worth it?"

Her handler leans back and holds her head in his hand, with a sudden twisted smile. He gazes deep into her eyes. "Please him, anna." 

Immediately, anna kneels back and stares straight at the younger man. She crawls towards him, holding his gaze, moving her bottom provocatively, allowing her breasts to swing pendulously as she moves. Then she reaches the younger man, kneels, and slowly starts to rub her breasts, her cunt, against his shin. A bitch in heat. 

Wordlessly, she reaches forward and undoes his fly. His penis, in full erection, springs out. She has such a determined look in her eyes that the younger man looks rather flustered. She does not even look back to seek permission - she knows perfectly well what her owner wants.

She leans forward and takes him in her mouth. Her owner sips the - excellent - coffee, calmly watching as the younger man groans helplessly and she swallows his cum. 

***

"Good girl. I'm so proud of you, anna." 

anna purrs like a cat as her owner strokes her naked, wet body. The final guests have left and she has been rewarded: he has allowed her to cum three times while he fingered her. 

She smiles, playfully taking his thumb in her mouth. But he knows her better than she knows herself by now. He looks down at her, at her blissful, satisfied face. He knows that she needs something more - it's been days now. It's time. 

"anna."

She gazes up at him and sees the change in his expression: now hard, steely, cruel. Impassive. Her throat trembles. "No, please..."

"You know you need it, anna." 

"Please". 

Ambiguous, as always, although the fear is real. As is the smell of her arousal, once again strong, the moisture seeping again between her thighs. 

He grabs her roughly by her hair and leads her into the adjoining room, where the device has been made ready. He then releases her, and she steps naked towards it, a mixture of fear and devotion, like a sacrificial victim. She looks briefly over her shoulder, seeking his look for support, and his expression softens somewhat. 

She lies down on the black, soft bed, legs straight, arms by her sides, and waits, like that first time when he had ordered her to lie down and wait. He walks around the bed, running his finger along her body, then up to her head and out of her field of vision. Then he places the open gag in her mouth, the blindfold on her eyes and the world disappears. She panics briefly, as always, but feels his hand on her shoulder steadying her. 

"A thing. now." 

Darkness within the dark. Then the earbuds slide in, and his voice in its head, moulding, programming it. _nothing. deep now. deep. nothing. no mind. no thoughts. no will. no desire. a thing. a thing to be used. a hole. a thing to be fucked. nothing. nothing_.

The black latex sheet slides over its body as the secret voice hisses in its body, as the vacuum pump hisses the air away. Its owner looks on in interest as the black latex tightens over its body, over its face, over its mouth, covering it, gagging it. A brief spasm as it feels the constriction, the choking, but then it quiets down, passively accepting. Quickly, he leans forward and inserts the tube through which it will breath. Eventually, he knows, there will come a point when, if commanded, it will hold its breath immediately. Indefinitely. Even to the point of asphyxia, should he allow it. Which he won't, of course. Ever.

The tight latex is now revealing the contours of its body in obscene detail, covering it completely except for the area around its cunt - a blind, mindless thing, a thing to be used, stinking of sex, dripping, open.

As always, he can't help himself. He undoes his belt, climbs on top of the tight, black-clad thing, and spurts into almost immediately into its convulsing, gripping cunt, cementing its brainwashing as it crashes into orgasm. 

***

After cleaning - almost tenderly - her pubis and gathering himself, he leaves the room. Tomorrow he will wake her up, carry her to their bed, and make love to her before they both go to the board meeting - after all, she's the head of R+D, and a bloody good one (placing her in that position, rather than legal advisory, was a stroke of genius. But he had suspected that she had it in her to be more creative than she had been allowed to for most of her life). 

But that will be tomorrow. Tonight she will sink into the depths of nothingness she needs, as she is programmed for the day, in a few weeks' time, when he will use her as a faceless sex slave with a few trusted friends. He may even send her back to Dr Farris to brush up on her treatment for a couple of weeks. After all, he knows what she needs better than she does. And he can't help being amused by Farris's annoyance.

He caresses her thigh through the latex as the creature beneath writhes slightly, reacting to the relentless voice and his touch. "Good night, my love." 

And he steps out, shutting the door on the dark room.



The Procession



Copyright Oggbashan June 2002 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

This is a story in the "Silverbridge" series but can be read on its own.

* * * * * * * * * *

WARNING: This story is intended for an adult audience. It should not be found in locations accessible to those under 18 years of age or the age appropriate by the laws of your country. It includes descriptions of bondage and forced feminisation. If that does not appeal to you then do NOT read the story.

* * * * *

The Procession Thomas reluctantly takes part 

I woke up in a room full of crinolines. They were hanging from hooks on the ceiling like tiered lampshades. The dresses that would go over them were secured to the picture rails on all four walls.

Then I remembered. Today was the Victorian procession through Silverbridge. The Glossies and the Vixens would be part of it wearing costumes designed by Lisa and made by her and her friends. This was Lisa's bedroom where the girls would change for this afternoon's event.

I yawned. I didn't want to take part. Lisa and I had argued about it last night.

"Lisa" I'd said "I don't want to dress up tomorrow. I'll dress normally and take pictures as you go past."

"No you won't!" she'd shouted at me. "You are going to walk arm in arm with me. Your suit fits perfectly."

"But it's boring" I'd said "It's OK for you women. You get to dress up in great clothes and can preen yourselves in your fine feathers. We men are drab and dull by comparison. No one will look at us."

I should have known better than to argue with Lisa. I never win. She was tired because of all the work for the procession. She'd taken trouble over my suit. It actually fitted better than my modern suits but I wasn't going to tell her. I made the mistake of carrying on the argument.

"You women love dressing up in Victorian dresses. You can swish your crinolines, flutter your fans - what can we men do? Doff our top hats and possibly twirl our fake moustaches. Boring!"

I didn't notice the glint in Lisa's eyes. She was getting mad at me.

"It isn't all good being dressed up as a Victorian lady. You have to wear a corset, handle the massive skirts with elegance, and even with a steel crinoline those dresses are heavy."

"So's my suit!" I'd retorted. "The high collar and cravat cut into my throat. All to look boring."

"So you think that we women will have a better time?" she'd asked.

"Of course! You love it."

"We'll see about that" Lisa had said. At that late stage I'd recognised that she was about to explode so I'd hurriedly changed the subject. I think I'd diverted her but with Lisa I never knew.

Now it was the day of the procession. I yawned again, looked at the clock. 8 a.m. I should be getting up. I stretched and was brought up short. I couldn't move my arms and legs. I was cuffed to the rails of the bed.

"Oh ****!" I thought. Lisa must have been really mad with me. She'd tied me up before when she was angry. What would she do?

"Lisa!" I called. I heard her coming up the stairs. When she came in the room she was smiling. That was bad. Very bad!

"Good morning, Thomas." she said brightly. "Slept well?"

"Yes ..." I'd better know the worst " .. Why have you cuffed me to the bed?"

"After our discussion last night I thought that you might not want to wear your costume today. So I made sure that you would. You are not getting out of bed until you agree to wear the costume I've made for you. You will, won't you?"

Lisa was still unnaturally cheerful. I suspected something but what? Then I realised I needed the bathroom - and soon! I'd have to give in.

"OK, Lisa. You've won. I'll wear it. Now let me up, please."

"Not so fast, Thomas. You agree to wear the costume I've made for you in the procession this afternoon?"

"Yes!" I was getting desperate.

"No matter what it is?"

"Yes." My brain wasn't working well because of my urgent need. 

"Did you hear that?" Lisa said to someone outside the door.

"Yes, Lisa. He's agreed to wear the costume you've made for him in the procession this afternoon, no matter what it is."

"Thank you, Jane"

"Lisa!" I hissed "I need the bathroom NOW!"

"OK, Thomas. You've agreed and I have a witness. I'll let you up."

She unlocked the cuffs. I wrapped a sheet round me and hurried to the bathroom.

"Good morning, Thomas" said Jane as I left the room.

"Morning, Jane" I grunted as I hurried past her. Normally I'd have been more polite to her. I liked Jane. As I entered the bathroom I heard Lisa and Jane giggling together. Women!

Once I'd eaten my hurried breakfast the day went from bad to worse. My male friends arrived, grabbed their Victorian suits and left as soon as possible. The flat was getting crowded with all our women friends dressing up. I lost count of the number of corsets I tightened, the dress backs I laced up. Normally I'd have enjoyed their company. They were a great group of friends but today they'd gone all feminine - comparing dresses, hairstyles, bonnets and hats! Totally unlike their usual selves as the hard playing Ladies Football team "The Vixens". Today they were more like kittens than Vixens.

I admit it. I was grumpy. I didn't want to take part in the procession. Lisa had made me agree so I'd have to go - but I didn't have to like the idea, did I?

I was sitting in the kitchen nursing a half-empty cup of black coffee about half an hour before we had to leave. Lisa called downstairs to me.

"Thomas! Time for you to get changed. Bring your black trainers with you, please."

Lisa seemed remarkably cheerful. I know she'd been up half the night finishing off costumes. I picked up the trainers and went upstairs. When I walked into the bedroom I was surprised to see so many women there. Apart from Lisa and Jane there were three other Vixens. They were fully dressed as Victorian Ladies except for their bonnets and gloves.

"Strip down to your shorts, Thomas!" Lisa ordered.

"What! In front of all these ladies?" I retorted.

"Hurry up, Thomas!" Jane added "We've all seen that much of you before."

They had. In my football kit with my shirt off, my football shorts were briefer than the boxers I was wearing. I stripped.

"Here's your costume, Thomas" said Lisa, pointing at the bed. At first I couldn't see what she was pointing at. I was looking for the Victorian Gentleman's suit. She was pointing at a dress.

"Yes, Thomas. That's it. You are going as a lady."

"Oh no I'm not!" I shouted.

"Oh yes you are!" Five voices together. I turned round. Three of them were between me and the door. No way out there. I turned back to Lisa and Jane.

"You agreed this morning, Thomas" said Jane. "I was there when you agreed."

"I agreed to wear the costume Lisa had made for me, not this!" I pointed at the dress on the bed.

"I made this dress for you last night" said Lisa with a wicked smile on her face "and you agreed to wear whatever I'd made for you. This is it."

"You agreed "no matter what it is" this morning" added Jane. "I even repeated it for you."

From behind me Candice said "You wouldn't go back on an agreement, would you Thomas? We don't want to dress you by force but we will if we have to, won't we?" The others agreed. I was trapped.

"I suppose I'll have to. But I was tricked!"

"Of course you were, Thomas" said Candice "but you were complaining to Lisa last night that we women have all the fun of dressing up. So now Lisa has arranged for you to experience all the advantages and disadvantages of dressing up as a crinolined Lady. Wasn't that kind of her?"

"No it wasn't! I'll never live it down if I walk through Silverbridge dressed like that!"

"I'm not so cruel, Thomas. No one will know who you are - except us five. And we'll keep quiet as long as you co-operate, won't we?" Lisa still had the wicked smile.

"How will you manage that?" I asked.

"I've made a special bonnet, just for you. Look - it has a face veil so you can't be seen. Now are you ready? There isn't much time."

"I suppose so." I agreed reluctantly.

"Right, girls, we all agree to keep Thomas' part in this procession quiet. OK?" 

They agreed.

"That's settled then" said Lisa "You know what to do. Let's get busy!"

They surrounded me. First Lisa put a padded bra on me. I had a cotton chemise thrown over my head. While my arms were being fed into it Jane pulled lace edged pantalettes up my legs and tied them at my waist. Lisa produced a long corset which was I was tightly laced into. I objected loudly as the air was forced out of my lungs. I yelled and yelled that it was much too tight. Jane knotted the corset laces despite my protests. I saw Lisa nod to Jane who forced a wadded silk scarf into my mouth and tied it in with another silk scarf knotted behind my head. I tried to raise my arms to pull it off but my hands were grabbed and held.

Temporarily my wrists were tied behind my back to the laces of the corset. Then Jane pulled a waist length slip up my legs. It was narrower at the hem and pulled my legs into a small area. It even had straps to fit under the arches of my trainers. Jane tied the slip at my waist. Now I could only move in small steps. The crinoline was lifted over my head and settled. That too was tied at the waist and the ties were threaded through loops on the corset. Then my wrists were untied and my arms fed into the sleeves of the dress as they pulled it down from above my head. The sleeves were loose at first. Black elbow length gloves were eased up my arms. Lisa hissed a threat in my ear so I co-operated by moving my fingers into the gloves only to find that the fingers were sewn together. The gloves were buttoned up and a velvet strap around each wrist was buckled. I'd have little chance of getting those gloves off. When the dress sleeves were laced up over them I had no chance at all.

As the back of the dress was being laced up I looked down. Above the crinoline spread skirt I had something attached to the front of my waist. It took me a few seconds to realise that it was a black satin muff.

The dress was actually very well made. It was a pale lilac with black lace detailing at the waist, neck and across the bosom. The overdress had four sections looping down over an darker lilac underskirt. Both the gathered sections and the underskirt were trimmed with fine pleated flounces. At the top of each flounce was more black lace in a frill. The flounce to the lower hem trailed on the ground. No one would see my black trainers under that as long as I was careful not to tip the crinoline. Then I realised that even if I did my feet still wouldn't be seen because the lace on the pantalettes and that tight waist slip that Jane had fitted to me covered them.

Studying that dress made me realise that Lisa had tricked me again. Even she couldn't have completed this much detail on a dress made for me last night! Then there were the unusual extras - the tight waist slip; the gloves with the fingers sewn together; the concealing bonnet. Lisa must have been planning this for days if not weeks! I grunted a complaint into my gag.

"Now, now, Thomas! Don't complain!" said Lisa "If you don't co-operate we might have to take your bonnet off in public. You wouldn't like that, would you?" 

As the back of the dress was tightened my head was forced upwards by the high collar.

"Only a couple of details left, Thomas" said Candice. "You are nearly ready for your part in the procession."

My gloved hands were put in the muff. Another trick! The muff ends were laced to the wrist bands on the gloves. I couldn't get my hands out and as the muff was sewn to the front of the dress I couldn't move my arms either.

I thought they'd ungag me at least but no! Lisa carefully fitted the large poke bonnet to my head. It even had blonde ringlets artfully trailing from the sides and back. The bonnet sides blinkered my face so that I could only see forwards. It seemed to be held on my head by a large bow under my chin but under the lace trim it was attached with laces to the high collar of the dress. Even if I shook my head violently it wouldn't come off.

"Come on, Thomas" said Lisa "You are ready now. We'll help you down the stairs and then Jane and I will link arms with you in the procession. We'll look after you."

"Look after me!" I thought angrily. They'd trussed me up like a chicken ready for the oven. I was bound, gagged and blinkered. I couldn't even run away.

"Before we go - have a look in the mirror" suggested Jane turning me to face it. "You make a really fine lady, don't you?"

She was right. I couldn't tell myself apart from the others except for the obscuring veil.

"I think Lisa has done a great job. Do you agree?" The others agreed. I didn't. Lisa had done a great job of making a fool of me. The only bit I was grateful for was that she and they had protected my public image. I would be a lady in the procession but no one else would know especially my team mates. The women had agreed not to tell. I knew they wouldn't. They might have had fun trapping me into being a crinolined lady but even they had scruples - or did they?

Lisa and Jane helped me down the stairs. With that tight slip I could barely bend my legs. I couldn't see where the steps were because of the spread of the crinolined skirt. Lisa and Jane managed the stairs as if they'd been wearing crinolines for years. They left me in the workroom with Candice while they fitted their hats to each other. Candice hissed in my ear:

"Thomas! Can you hear me? Nod if you can."

I nodded.

"We're going to walk the route once with you. If we need to talk to you we'll call you Frances. OK?"

I nodded.

"Frances was going to wear this dress but she's away this weekend. When we've finished the route I'll bring you back here and you will change into your Gentleman's suit. Then we'll rejoin the group and no one will think that you were a "lady" before. OK?"

I nodded. It sounded as if Candice had persuaded the others to let me off lightly. That was typical of Candice. 

"One last thing. We'll be passing both Miss Silverbridge and the Mayor and his party. We have to curtsy to both. Can you curtsy?"

I tried. I was very wobbly. That tight slip that Jane had fitted made it difficult.

"Try again with me holding your arm." 

She tucked her arm through mine. We both curtsied when her arm signalled. That was more successful.

"I'll warn Jane and Lisa. They'll be holding your arms and will let you know when to curtsy. Even if you make a mess of it, those two could hold you up."

It's true. Lisa and Jane could easily have carried me round the whole procession! They returned to the workroom at that point.

"Lisa!" said Candice "Thomas will have problems with the curtsy because his legs are tightly swathed. You and Jane will have to help him."

"I thought we would have to" replied Lisa. "We'll manage."

Then we set off. Jane and Lisa tucked their hands through my arms. We joined the other Vixens in the street outside. Shortly afterwards we met the men outside the Football Club.

Harold asked Lisa "Where's Thomas?"

"He's slightly delayed. He'll be along later" she replied. There were suppressed giggles from those Vixens who knew I was already there but Harold didn't notice.

Despite the club's best efforts the costumed men were greatly outnumbered by the women. Nearly all the Vixens were dressed in crinolines. No more than a quarter of the Glossies had bothered.

It was a very odd sensation to walk through the streets of Silverbridge dressed as I was. There was a large crowd watching and cheering us as we strolled to the Town Hall. I could see all the details of the crowd through my veil but they couldn't see me. I felt like "The Invisible Man" and that's what I was. Invisible!

I can't say that I enjoyed it. That tight corset cut into me. Even at the slow pace we were walking I found that I breathing frequently. It didn't help that Jane had gagged me so effectively. My crinolined skirt swung slowly but my feet were moving fast within the confines of that tight slip. The dress was very heavy but not unbearably so. I was right - the crowd looked at the ladies. No one looked at the men.

The curtsy to Miss Silverbridge and her princesses was no more than reasonable. I wobbled as I came back up and the girls didn't hold me firmly enough. When we reached the Mayor and his group the curtsy was good. Lisa and Jane grabbed my arms so hard that I could have lifted my feet off the ground without affecting the impression of three ladies curtseying in unison. 

We then returned to the Football Club. From there we should go back to the town centre and mingle with the crowd. As the others set off Candice grabbed me and hurried me back to the workroom. I was almost running (in very short steps) to keep up with her. When the door was closed behind us I was panting as hard as I could through my nose. I was nearly suffocated by the gag.

"Are you all right, Thomas?" Candice asked.

I shook my head still panting for breath.

She lifted my veil to see that I was bright red in the face. She struggled with the laces holding my bonnet. It seemed to take ages before she took it off. The scarf knotted behind my head wouldn't undo. At last she released it and pulled my gag out. I gasped and panted for air.

"Poor Thomas!" she said stroking my cheek. "Are you better now?"

I nodded my head. I didn't have enough breath to speak.

Candice untied my hands from the muff and unlaced the dress's sleeves. She took the gloves off. Relief! I could move my fingers, hands and arms. Unlacing the dress took at least ten minutes before she could lift it off. The crinoline followed. Jane's knots on the waist slip and pantalettes were locked tight. Candice finally undid them with her teeth. 

"Thomas"

"Yes, Candice"

"You'll have to lie flat for me to get the corset off. While you are standing there's too much pressure on it."

I went flat on my face on the floor.

Candice hauled up her crinoline and squatted beside me. The corset's knot just wouldn't undo.

"I'm sorry, Thomas. I can't get it undone."

"What do we do now?" I asked

"Well .. We could leave it on until Jane and Lisa get back but then you wouldn't have appeared as a "Gentleman". That might give the masquerade away."

"I don't want that!" I protested

"Then Thomas .." Candice stopped.

"What? Anything so that people don't know"

"You'll have to put your suit on over the corset. I can take the padded bra off but that corset is immovable."

"Oh ****!" I shouted

"Quieter, please Thomas" She pleaded. "You don't want someone coming in and finding you like this"

"No I don't!" I whispered.

Candice giggled. Normally I like Candice's giggles but this time I was worried.

"OK" I said resignedly. "I'll put the suit on over this ****** corset."

So I did.

Candice and I rejoined the group. Lisa kissed me. Jane kissed me. Candice kissed me. That was nice.

"Jane!" I whispered to her "I'll get back at you sometime. We couldn't get the corset off."

Jane laughed out loud.

"I always was good at knots" she whispered back "Why didn't you cut the laces?"

"And have Lisa even madder with me? No thanks! I'd rather face a herd of charging elephants."

"Since they are unlikely around here, you'd better make your peace with Lisa. Tell her about the corset. That might brighten her day. She thinks you've been a pain about this procession. Knowing that you can't get the corset off might be enough to stop her disciplining you any more." said Jane.

"Thank you, Jane. I will. But please get me out of it soon."